


Despite Your Destination

by starclipped



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: 1989 and 2016, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canon Typical Themes, Canon-Typical Behavior, Canon-Typical Violence, Eddie Kaspbrak Loves Richie Tozier, Eddie lives but Stanley doesn't, First Kiss, Fix-It, Fluff, Homophobic Language, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Mutual Pining, Not Canon Compliant, POV Alternating, Richie Tozier Loves Eddie Kaspbrak, Stanley Uris Knows All, Stanley Uris is a Good Friend, but pennywise does, eddie gets taken instead of beverly, eddie has a crush on richie and doesn't really know it, it pains me to do that but i did and i'm sorry, kissing is the only way to get someone out of the deadlights thems the rules, like pennywise being a creep to eddie, multiple first kisses sort of, quotes and situations from the movie revisited, some nuggets from the book made it in
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-14
Updated: 2020-07-27
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:34:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 27,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25196260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starclipped/pseuds/starclipped
Summary: Eddie's smile is sweet, tinged with something bitter. Before Richie can frown, Eddie turns the other way and sighs."Richie to the rescue, huh." The way Eddie says it makes Richie wonder if he remembers how he brought him back to consciousness. If he does he's being oddly cavalier about it. Maybe it simply doesn't matter. Now that's a thought that makes his heart twinge. "Well, maybe it's my turn.""Sure, Eds," Richie cautiously replies, not quite certain what they're talking about anymore. "Maybe it is."[Or: Thirteen year old Eddie Kaspbrak gets caught in the Deadlights. Twenty-seven years later, forty year old Richie Tozier does too.]
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak & Richie Tozier, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 26
Kudos: 231





	1. August 1989

**Author's Note:**

> _“wish I knew what you were looking for, might have known what you would find. and it’s something quite peculiar, something shimmering and white. it leads you here, despite your destination. under the milky way tonight.”_  
>   
>  — under the milky way; the church
> 
> (fic title taken from this song)
> 
> [warnings for: homophobic slurs, richie overhearing some nasty things about the losers in general, pennywise being a creep to eddie sexually (like in the book), a sort of fat joke about sonia] 

**August 1989**

This has been, hands down, the worst summer of Edward Kaspbrak’s (admittedly short) life. 

There were some good moments, of course. Eddie had felt _free_ jumping off that cliff, uncharacteristically calm and senseless once his body broke through the surface of the quarry’s green, murky water. He'd had _fun_ pelting bullies with rocks, screaming out the rage that so often made him snooty and shaky, almost as much fun as he'd had sharing popcorn with Richie at an afternoon showing of _Batman_ , as he'd had hauling empty milk crates and sugary snacks and crumpled comics down into the hollowed out hole that Ben had introduced to them as a clubhouse. And he'd been _happy_ spending time with his friends, old and new, riding through the crossing streets of Derry, laughing with the wind in his hair and the sun in his eyes, dotting his face with more freckles for his mom to fuss over ( _you need sunscreen Eddie Bear it's too hot out today and your skin is too delicate maybe you should just stay inside away from all that radiation that's what it is you know and radiation causes cancer do you want cancer Eddie your father_ —) 

But everything else? The leper and the clown, the whispers in the dark and gurgles in the drain, the blood red balloons and balloon red blood, the monstrous house on Neibolt and the arm he'd snapped within it's crooked maw—all of that had been utter _hell_ , or what Eddie thinks an earthly equivalent to eternal suffering might be. And what's even worse, a real rotten cherry on top of a sour sundae, is that he isn't allowed to see or talk to any of his friends until the new school year begins. In September. 

He should be mad at them, his mother says, because they got him _hurt,_ because they manipulated him into doing something he knew he _shouldn't_ , because they made her _worry_ . Realistically Eddie knows it wouldn't be unfair to feel such things—Bill, especially, had forced his hand by having them meddle in things kids their age had no business even _thinking_ about—but, truly, all Eddie could focus on (besides debilitating fear and a smidgen of throbbing pain from his arm) was how much he _missed_ them, Bill and Stan and Ben and Mike and Bev and _Richie_. Because they hadn't actually done anything wrong; Eddie went into that house willingly, bolstered by six other pounding heartbeats and the surge of bravery he didn't have time to talk himself out of, not when the voice in his head that sounded so much like his mother was smothered by the collective power of seven outcasts.

And that's what it had been, Eddie is convinced. _Power._ There's no way they would have survived that encounter with the fucking _shapeshifting demon clown living in the sewers_ if they hadn't all been together.

But now he's alone, stuck inside this dark, dreary home with his mother, only allowed out for trips to Costello Market and Keene's Pharmacy. He's tired of hearing the droning tones of WCBB—can't even drown it out by practicing his hand flute, as handicapped as he currently is—every time he hops downstairs, which isn't so often these last couple of weeks, after his mother caught him tucked inside a kitchen cabinet with the landline balanced on his knees, something he'd been doing every few days in order to contact Bill and Stan and Richie in short, whispered calls. 

He'd had Richie on the other end and was listening to him blab hysterically about Bill, about how he'd punched him straight in the mouth—which, _okay_ , Richie said and did shit all the time that made Eddie want to slap him upside the head, but he never deserved any reactions that were fueled by _serious_ anger or ill intent, so he was shocked to discover Big Bill had done something so mean, even after Richie told him what had caused it—when his mother swung open the door with a shriek. She'd yanked Eddie out by his good arm, stealing the phone from him and slamming it down onto the table with a blubbering howl, banning him from using it for the rest of summer. 

She hadn't disconnected the line, however, and wasn't fast enough to answer any incoming calls if she wasn't already in the kitchen, so Eddie _sort of_ disobeyed her by being the first to grab the receiver whenever the loud _brrrrr_ rang through the air, always hoping it'd be the voice of a Loser he'd hear. 

It never was.

It's late August now, warm and stagnant. All Eddie's been doing is reading comics in his room, flipping between battered issues of Power Pack, Daredevil, and one lone copy of Hellraiser he'd snatched from Richie's collection during their last hang at the clubhouse, before all the clown shit really took over. He'd fought Richie for the hammock a second time, then, though it had ended up exactly like the first, with Eddie's feet in Richie's face and Richie's hands on Eddie's ankles. 

He sighs at the memory, batting it away like a fly, but then another one follows, just as annoying as the last. This time he recalls how he'd toed Richie's glasses off, snickering at the way Richie glowered, even more pissed off than he'd been the time before. _You're gonna break them, dumbass,_ he'd huffed, blinking rapidly to adjust to his blurred surroundings, squinting like it might actually help. He looked so different without them, Eddie thought. His eyes were still big but not comically so, the way they were behind those thick bottle lenses, and they seemed darker in the shadows of the clubhouse without the glare. Eddie didn't like to think this because it was a _stupid_ thought, but… Richie looked _soft_ when he blinked at Eddie without being able to see him properly, even with his puffy chapped lips pulled into a frown. And he looked even younger, somehow, which was weird because they were only thirteen as it was, and it's not like bare-faced Richie looked like a _baby_ , but without anything obstructing his face, well. 

Eddie startles at the sound of his watch beeping, cutting through the otherwise silent room. When he reaches for his dosette box he realizes he forgot to refill it, as lazy as he's been, so he shuffles over to pluck his fanny pack from the top of his desk, rifling around inside for the usual 1pm pill bottle, only to find it empty.

 _"Fuck,_ " he mutters under his breath, eyes darting around the room like he might find a stray capsule somewhere on the floor. Because he has zero good luck, there isn't one.

Eddie knows what this means. It's time for another refill, which normally wouldn't be bad, would actually be _fine_ , but the last time he'd been to Keene's (to collect a _different_ med and also pick up some fresh ibuprofen for his arm) he'd been lured down to the basement by his mother's voice, despite _knowing_ she'd been waiting for him at home, probably timing how long he took, and then he'd been attacked by that disgusting, slimy, stinky walking infection. He was terrified, practically pissed his pants as he screamed and darted back up the stairs, shoving Greta into a display rack on his way out to the street. And now he has to go back and risk being cornered again, risk being _murdered,_ eaten alive by a slobbering creature dressed like Ronald Fucking McDonald. 

"It's okay," he tells himself. "It's fine. You can do this, Eds. In and out, no investigating any weird sounds, no detours. Just get what you need and come home."

Taking a deep breath, Eddie slips his socked feet into his sneakers and clips the fanny pack around his waist, making sure to tuck his striped red shirt beneath the strap neatly. He slaps his palms against his thighs and exits his room, bottle in hand, to carefully descend the stairs. 

His mother is painting her nails again as a laugh track plays in the background. The harsh smell of polish makes Eddie nauseous.

"Mommy?" he calls from the archway, peering into the dark living room. The blinds are shut, blocking out the afternoon sun, allowing everything in the room to be colored in flashing hues of blue and white. 

"Hmm?"

"I need to go to the pharmacy." That gets her attention, her narrow eyes darting up to meet his wide ones from behind her little round spectacles. He holds up the empty orange bottle, giving it another shake to prove his point. The lack of rattling has her sighing, but she seems pleased.

"Alright, Eddie. But just to Keene's and back, yes? Twenty minutes."

"Okay." He starts toward the door. Pauses. "Can I take my bike, please? It'd be faster." He can't pedal as quick as Bill does on Silver, but he's fairly confident he could escape anything that might try to chase him, if he went on two wheels instead of two feet.

His stomach churns when his mother frowns, eyes flashing.

"Eddie Bear," she coos, like he should _know better._ "It's too dangerous. You could fall off, hurt yourself worse. How would you steer with one hand?"

"I can use both," he says quickly, wiggling his fingers from where they poke out of his cast. "I'll be careful."

"I don't think so, Eddie," she replies, sounding almost sad about it, though Eddie suspects there's something else hiding in that tone, suspects there's another reason for her refusal. It _is_ dangerous, sure, but it's also faster; she doesn't know how quick Eddie's legs can run or pedal, so she doesn't know where he might go or who he might see while he's out. And that's not a freedom she's willing to let him have. "Now hurry along, sweetie. It's been windy all day, there's a lot of pollen out. You know how your allergies get."

"Okay," Eddie agrees, disappointed but not surprised. "Bye, mommy."

She doesn't stop him from slipping out the door without kissing her goodbye, making it clear she expects him to back soon, so he hops down the steps and begins a brusque walk toward Main Street. 

He finds himself wishing he had Richie and his incessant mumbling to keep him company.

*******

_Placebos_ . That's what Greta had said. Or was it gazebo? Either way, it means _bullshit._ And Eddie doesn't know how to process that.

Had she even been telling the truth? The giant _loser_ written across his cast says maybe not, but then again… how would he know? What exactly was wrong with him, anyway? His mother never explicitly said and whenever he tried to ask his doctor they somehow got onto a different topic. Other kids didn't take daily pills the way he did; vitamins, maybe, but not tablets and capsules kept inside neat little boxes. And what did that mean for his inhaler? His asthma? 

Eddie clutches the white bag in his hand tighter, clinging to it as he bites his lip. He can't think about this right now, not on top of everything else. He just needs to go home, ask his mom what's going on, maybe drag out the dictionary to look for answers himself—

"Hey, girly boy. _Psst_." Eddie freezes. "Wheezy!" He turns around. 

Henry Bowers is standing there, right behind him, almost like he appeared out of thin air. Eddie stumbles back on instinct, eyes wide and lips parted, a whistling breath escaping his lungs as if called forth by Henry's taunts. 

It isn't often you find Bowers alone, how he is now. He usually has Patrick, Belch, and Vic at his flank, participating eagerly in whatever vile act might sprout from Henry's brain. But they're nowhere to be seen, here.

Eddie had heard about Patrick having gone "missing," had the same happened to Belch and Vic? Had Pennywise gotten them, too? Or—wait.

There's blood on Henry's face, on his hands and clothes, coating his lips, stretching into a manic grin. Had… had he—

Oh God. Oh fuck. Oh _shit._ Eddie _knew_ he was a fucking psychopath, he knew it! Even if Henry hadn't been responsible for kidnapping a bunch of Derry youths, he's sure as hell done _something_. 

_It could be animal blood,_ he thinks frantically, trying to latch onto something rational to help stop his lungs from constricting. _He lives on a farm. But they don't have cattle, do they? Maybe he stole a sheep from Mike's property, but that places Mike in danger, if he was home…_

Eddie's heart begins to viciously pound. 

"I, uh—" The heel of his shoe catches on a crack in the street the farther back he walks, nearly knocking tripping him. Bowers continues his slow advance. "I have to go. My mom is—I'm already late, okay, and my mom's waiting for me."

"That's too bad," Bowers says coolly, never blinking as he stares Eddie down. He could just run, _should_ run, but he's afraid to turn his back, especially when something glints in Henry's fist. A switchblade, the silver edge crusted with blood. "I guess she'll be waiting a lot longer, huh, you little twerp? _Derry Fairy, Derry Fairy!_ " He sings that last bit, laughter laced with each syllable. Eddie's chest grows tight. Sweat drips down the back of his loose t-shirt the harder his pulse pounds. 

"No," he squeaks, tensing the muscles in his legs. The street is empty, unusually so for this time of day, almost frozen in time with only the two of them in motion. He can't even feel any of the wind his mother had complained about before he left. "No, um. I think I'm gonna go now? I think I'm gonna, just—"

Henry lunges the exact moment Eddie begins to spin around, preparing to run. He screams as he does, catching sight of the arm going toward him, nearly falling to his knees when he swipes out with his cast to knock the blade away. He winces at the impact, feeling a slight throbbing sensation from the jostle, but pushes it to the recesses of his mind immediately to scramble upright once more.

And then he's off, the bag he'd been holding getting trampled beneath his feet, rubber soles pounding pavement so hard and fast Eddie swears he'd see smoke trailing his ass if he dared look back.

"It's your time, Eddie!" Henry screeches with that same maniacal laugh, wielding his blade with abandon.

"Fuck off, you fucking inbred asshole!"

Eddie runs and runs, legs and lungs burning with the effort, taking corners at such a rapid rate that he can’t even predict where he'll end up. He thinks, after what feels like hours, he hears the sound of Henry's footsteps drop off somewhere, but since he can't be sure he keeps going, taking another corner sharply, ankle bending when his foot lands in the little ditch around some shrubbery. It hurts, slowing him down almost immediately, his leftover momentum careening him forward until he hits asphalt with a gasping groan. The impact in his knees resonates throughout his whole body, shaking his bones like glass and tearing his jeans in the process. He chokes on air he can't properly swallow, hands fumbling for the inhaler in his fanny pack as his vision blackens around the edges, the sweat on his lids making it hard to see. He takes a few quick puffs, willing his heart rate to slow, idly thinking that the straps on his shoes are loose, just as he registers how unbearably his side aches. Bowers hasn't caught up yet, so he figures he's safe—and then he opens his eyes.

There, looming above him in all its horribly decrepit glory, is the house on 29 Neibolt Street, the face of it looking as if it would swallow him entirely, keep him down its belly to rot for eternity, if he so much as stepped inside again. 

Eddie slowly gets his legs beneath his body, standing shakily to his full height, gaze never wavering from the rust and rot on his left. He can almost hear the leper, if he strains hard enough, hissing about pills, wondering what he's _looking for_ —a simple question that keeps Eddie from sleep almost as much as visualizing the gaping holes and oozing sores does. 

And what is the answer? Eddie is looking for safety, first and foremost, no matter the situation, even if he sometimes disregards his own sensibilities. He's looking for friendship too, which he already has—first with Bill and Richie and Stan, then with Bev and Mike and Ben. He's looking for happiness, maybe; looking for those glittering moments that sometimes occurrs, like when Bill says _nice thinking_ with all his stuttering confidence or when Stanley grins at something smart-mouthed Eddie decides to grumble or when Richie pokes and nudges and teases until Eddie feels like exploding, then allows himself to be poked and nudged and teased in return. A perfect balance. (He misses that the most.)

Eddie isn't looking for anything _now_ , though. All he has to do is go home. He's one hundred percent late and his mother is probably having an aneurysm this very moment.

" _Eddie! Eddie, over here!"_

That voice is unmistakable.

"Richie?"

But it _can't_ be. What the fuck would he be doing here, _inside the well house,_ waving through the slats of a boarded window? Eddie begins walking forward without thought, Richie's voice immediately drawing him in. He stops abruptly when the situation makes itself clear. 

It's a trick, right? Like his mother in the basement. If he goes over there something bad is going to happen, but—

"Eddie! Hey, dipshit, come on! _Please!_ "

 _But_ if it isn't a trick and this is really Richie… Eddie can't just _leave._ He could get hurt, get killed; if not by the clown itself then by fucking _Bowers_ , who will eventually pass by. Shit, the house could collapse into a sinkhole! 

If this _is_ Richie, he needs help _now_ . Needs _Eddie._

"What the fuck are you doing?" Eddie stalks forward before he can talk himself out of it. "Why're you in there? After everything that happened—"

"What, you think I decided to dick around in here willingly?" Richie snaps, voice crackling. Eddie passes through the warped fence, ignoring the front door to walk toward the left, where the tall, weedy grass brushes his scraped knee through a thready hole. Yellow petals of a nearby sunflower, flourishing in this filthy wasteland, tickle his fingertips. The closer Eddie gets the easier it is to see bits of Richie's face and chest. He's wearing his _Freese's_ shirt again, all dirty and stained like he hasn’t washed the thing in weeks. "It's that fucking _clown._ I was at the arcade, kicking ass in _Street Fighter_ , and when I left to go home for lunch… something happened. I woke up in here."

Okay. That _does_ sound plausible. But why is he just standing there, _alive?_ Is he being used as bait? Has he been left to stew in his fear ( _tasty, tasty_ ) until It deems his flesh ripe enough to tear into? _Ugh._

"You'll rot your brain, playing games all the time," Eddie murmurs, finally stepping up to the window. Richie is taller than him to begin with but he looks massive now, standing on top of a slanted foundation while Eddie remains fully grounded on the dirt outside. In a whisper, he asks: "Where… where is he? _It_ or whatever. Is—did he go down the well again? Is he upstairs? Or—" 

"Shit, Eds, I don't know. And I'd rather not wait around to find out!"

"No, you're right, yeah. How…" He looks around quickly, gaze briefly skimming the door.

"I can't get it open," Richie says, as if reading Eddie's thoughts. "I think the only way out is through this window. I've been trying to knock the boards off, but—"

"You're too weak?"

Richie narrows his eyes, which don't look as large behind his glasses, Eddie notices. And then he blinks and something inside Eddie quivers. His irises turned _gold_ for a second, or had he imagined that? It's bright and hot today and Eddie's knees feel like jelly. He can’t be sure.

"Here," Richie says after a beat, hands moving up to one of the bigger slats so he can slip something pointy through. A fence post, Eddie realizes, like the one Beverly had used to save them. "You see the nails, right? Pry them off with this. Hurry up."

"Yeah, okay."

Eddie reaches out, fingers circling rot iron, but Richie doesn't let go. He doesn't feel stiflingly warm, like usual. Doesn't feel _safe._

"What were you doing out here, anyway? Thought Mrs. K had you on lockdown."

"Yeah, she does, but I needed a refill. They're—I mean, Greta said they're gazebos or whatever. Bullshit. Can you believe that, Rich?"

"Not if _she_ said it." Richie licks his lips, a movement Eddie instinctively tracks, this close, then quickly looks away from. "No."

"That's what I thought too, but—" He tries to yank the post again, but it doesn't budge. Eddie moves his head closer to peer through a crack, spots Richie's hand holding the other end in a depth grip. 

"What were you doing out here, Eds?" Richie asks again, low and slow. Eddie scrunches his nose. Furrows his brows. He starts to look back up to Richie's face, skin prickling, but then he sees his hand shift. 

Through a stream of dusty light, Eddie notices how Richie’s skin appears blistered and gray. Infected.

"I—I, uh—"

"Were you looking for me, Eddie?" There's mirth in his tone, though not the familiar kind. Not funny, just _taunting._ "You missed me, didn't you? Probably hoped we could play Hide and Seek, maybe even Truth or Dare. Probably wanted to wrestle over the hammock again, yeah? Steal a lick of my ice cream?"

"What the fuck are you talking about?" Eddie wheezes, sweat beading at his nape. His chest is getting tight again, like it had with Bowers, but somehow _worse,_ and his brain is screaming _DANGER DANGER DANGER_. "Stop being a creep, gimme the—"

Richie laughs. It's not braying or loud or full-bodied. It’s cold. And scary. 

Slowly, _very_ slowly, knowing in the back of his head exactly what this means but not wanting to accept his own naivety, Eddie trails his gaze back up to Richie's head. He gasps and reels back at the sight he’s greeted with.

The glasses are gone, eyes foggy and yellow, the usual wild strands that stick to his forehead turning a bright shade of orange. Richie’s crooked teeth have turned sharp, his overbite menacing rather than endearing, the _Freese's_ logo cracking like paint chips that float around bent shoulders. And his _nose_ _;_ what used to be the large center of Richie's odd mix of soft and sharp features no longer even _exists_ , is nothing but bitten flesh and rotting bone, black sludge oozing from fluttering nostrils. 

"Like what you see? Oh, I _know_ you do!" Not-Richie cackles, tugging the post—and therefore Eddie's hand, stuck in place like it’s fused with the iron—through the opening. " _This_ is what happens when you touch the other boys, Eddie. This is what happens when you don't take your _gazebos._ You become filthy. Sick. But if you lived _here_ , Eddie, you wouldn't have to worry. If you lived here, you'd be right at home. And this _is_ your home, Eds. Can't you feel it? This is where you're meant to be, down here in the water with me. You'll float with us and all your little friends!"

Eddie screams, barely registering the noise in his own ears, as he's jerked closer to the house, body colliding hard with the moldy wood. He tries to move back but something grabs his wrist in a tight hold. Planting his cast against the siding and digging his feet into the dirt, Eddie tries hard to escape, lids squeezing shut with the increasing force of the pull. _It's gonna rip my fucking arm off_ , he thinks wildly, coming up blank on what to do. 

"Come on, Eddie," _It_ growls, sharp nails digging into the meat of his forearm. He feels something wet coat his skin and isn't sure if it's blood or drool. "I'll give you a blowie, Eds! Don’t you want it? _Richie does it for a dime, he will do it anytime, fifty cents for overtime!_ I bet he'd do it for free!"

"SHUT UP! SHUT UP!" Eddie hollers, so loud he feels his chest rumble. He's fueled with so much rage, suddenly, that he can't even focus on his fear when dozens of rows of shark teeth present themselves right in front of his eyes. 

Thinking back to Beverly’s heroic rescue, Eddie jams the tips of his fingers into his fanny pack, not willing to give up. The cast prevents him from roaming too deep, but he finds the shape of his inhaler easily and whips it out. Gazebo or not, the taste had always been horrid and he's certain what’s inside isn’t meant to go anywhere outside the mouth. Eddie thumbs the cap off, shoulder throbbing, and aims at the window, pressing his thumb down hard.

"Eat battery acid, fucknuts!" Eddie shouts, the hiss of the spray reminding him of a snake.

Miraculously, those round yellow eyes fizzle out like flames and It reels back with a wretched yowl. Eddie's arm is released (in one piece, blessedly), scraping against splintery wood, and he falls back onto the grass with a harsh clack of his teeth, going dizzy for a moment. 

Eddie crab-crawls a few paces, nails digging into the dirt, the palms of his hands getting pricked by brambles when he scrambles onto all fours, springing to his feet to run to the empty road. He thinks about Richie and all the disgusting things It had said as he struggles to remain upright, breaths coming out fast but going in slow, a sure sign of an oncoming asthma attack—

And then he can't breathe at all.

Eddie slams into something solid and wide, a body clad in faded frilly clothing that smells of mildew; the _clown_ , already recovered from Eddie's pathetic reversal. His head knocks back painfully when a gloved hand shoves up beneath his chin, clawed fingers wrapping snug around his throat to lift him high in the air, his limbs flailing in an attempt to escape. Through watery eyes Eddie can see a cherry red Cheshire grin, but all he can do is punch and choke and cry, wondering where his friends are, wondering where Richie _really_ is, until he can’t wonder anything at all.

**& &&**

"—he really, y’know, a fag?"

"Oh yeah. Didn't you hear what happened with Bowers? _All_ those little losers he hangs 'round with are probably flamers, too. Or maybe just him and the Jew and the one with the fanny pack. Homos are like ticks, get it? You find one and suddenly they're all over the place, trying to suck on you."

"But Beaverly's been tagging along with them, right? I figured _she_ was sucking on ‘em, trying to make some friends. Why else would a bunch of guys want her around?"

"Hmm, maybe. But I think it’s probably just Denbrough. She's totally got the hots for that stuttering freak. I bet he cries about his dead brother while she does it to him."

"And Tits probably wishes it were him!"

"What about the black kid? The one with the creepy old grandpa—"

Richie jams his finger into the button harder, trying to drown out all the nasty whispers by keeping his attention on the game. The colorful lights and tinny sounds make for good distractions, but they never last long, especially not with how quickly Richie coasts through each level.

He's been at this awhile, having worked himself up to coming back after that run-in with Bowers and his cousin a few weeks ago. He'd steered clear of Memorial Park though, and had no plans to return _there_ anytime soon. But The Capitol's arcade is different. Always has been. It used to feel like a safe space. Truth be told, it _still_ does, just, well. With people pointing and laughing under their breaths whenever Richie looks up from the screen, things are a little less happy. A little less fun. No one wants to play with the _faggot_ , after all. Won't even pass by him without at least two feet of space in between. Even if Richie turned around and shouted at the top of his lungs that he's _not_ some fucking _queer,_ but… that wouldn't be true, would it? At this point, Richie doesn't know.

Or, really, _he does_ , but if he ignores it long enough then maybe it'll go away. 

_Want a kiss, Richie?_

Because it's just a stupid crush, right? Puppy Dog Dumbassery. That weird fluttery feeling he gets in his belly anytime he looks at or touches Eddie—and a couple of other _maybe sorta kinda_ _cute_ boys, okay, but mostly _Eddie_ —is just some weird puberty phase. _It'll pass,_ he tells himself. (Then, deeper down: _no it won't._ )

Richie sighs in relief when the two gossiping assholes on his right finally head toward the exit, leaving him in relative peace. He doesn't have to think of anything but the game, now; of anything but kicking ass and taking names. It's methodical, the tactics he's discovered hardly ever failing, but he's been preoccupied, this visit, and finally loses a match. But with the busybodies gone, having taken their awful words with them, Richie is certain his next few rounds will be amazing. 

So he reaches for another token, fingers freezing midair. Swallows hard at the memory of Connor staring at him like he had two heads. He feels like he does, sometimes, with how rapidly his thoughts bounce and shift, with all the _strange_ topics he seems to linger on, with all the weird shit that spews from his mouth.

Richie licks his lips and grabs the token, spinning it slowly between his fingers, then decisively slots it into the machine to start again, selecting the same character as before. However, as he goes through the easy beginning motions his loneliness takes hold, causing his mind to wander toward his friends. Or _ex-_ friends, he supposes. He's spoken to Stan a few times—most notably at his shockingly awesome bar mitzvah—since Bill socked him in the jaw, and Eddie once on the phone, but none of the others. No Ben, no Mike, no Beverly. They probably don't miss him, probably don't care, would probably say _beep beep_ if he tried contacting them, so he hasn't. Why bother? 

Other than feeling the most alone he _ever_ has, nothing else is really going on. A couple of mean names aren't going to keep him down for long and he's been spending more time at home this past week anyhow, avoiding almost any instance where a clown could easily pop up. But he goes stir crazy if he spends too long cooped up anywhere, unable to stretch his scrawny legs, they've been aching more and more lately, and _Street Fighter_ is the only thing that fills the silence left by the Losers in a marginally acceptable manner. For now. 

He misses them, though. He really does. Yeah, he's pissed at Bill for going all crazy and Beverly for backing him blindly, but that doesn't mean he can't wish they were around. Bill was often quiet but he had a real wit to him, always with a wild hair up his ass that got Richie eager to do whatever stupid thing he thought of, and Bev, well. She wasn't _so_ bad. For a girl. She could be funny, in her own wry way, and had good taste in music. She even let Richie share her cigarettes every once in a while, which was super cool even if they were kind of gross, and she taught him a bunch of tricks with that yo-yo they'd found in the barrens.

As for the others… they hadn't done anything _wrong._ Stan's parents were divided about his behavior during the bar mitzvah so he’s been semi-grounded until further notice, but when he talked to Richie he tried to act as normal as possible, talking about ornithology and _Dead Poets Society_ and glossing over everything else like none of it happened. Ben and Mike hadn't made an effort, but Eddie called not too long ago, talking quiet so his mom wouldn't hear him breaking the rules. 

She'd found out, of course, but those precious few moments of hearing each other's voices after the horrors they'd seen… it was important to Richie when not many things were. Had felt almost like they were at a sleepover, giggling in the dark, hearing ‘ _shut up, doofus’_ when Richie made Eddie snort too loud. But instead of talking about comics and movies and the idiots they shared classes with, they discussed how Eddie's arm was feeling, what they could or should do next, if their group of seven would remain intact for the first year of high school or if it was doomed to stay broken apart. Richie mentioned, with a hint of shame, what he'd said about Georgie and how Bill had hit him without a second thought. Surprisingly, Eddie was rather miffed about the whole thing. 

_"You deserved it, in theory,_ " he'd said, _"but not in practice. Bill shouldn't've done that."_

Richie knows how much Eddie looks up to Bill—hell, they all do, in one way or another—so to be on the receiving end of sympathetic grunts and hums while Bill's actions were met with scorn had been a real boost to Richie's mood. But it was always like that, whenever Eddie took his side over Bill's, which seemed to be happening more and more these days. A rare treat he shouldn't enjoy but still really fucking _loved_.

Maybe Richie should pay a visit to Ben's house, see what he's been up to, if he's even there, or check down in the clubhouse if he's not, although that might run the risk of seeing Bill and he definitely doesn’t want that. He'd ride out to Mike's farm, even just for the trip, if he knew for a fact he wouldn't get caught by Bowers on the way. After their last encounter… yeah, no thanks. 

Richie blinks all those thoughts away, picking up the pace on his moves. None of this would be a problem if it weren't for _Bill._ Ugh. He hits the button harder, jerking the joystick left and right. 

_Stupid clown. Stupid Bowers. Stupid Denbrough. Stupid Richie. Stupid, stupid, stupid_

"Rich!"

Turning at the sound of his name, Richie's bug eyes land on none other than Bill rushing his way. 

"What do _you_ want?" he scowls, shifting on his feet, attention returning to the game. He lands a combo and laughs. "See that guy I'm hitting? I'm pretending it's you!"

"Richie," Bill says again, breathless and quieter as he comes to a stop beside the cabinet. "It—It got Eddie."

Huh? What about Eddie?

"What're you talking about?"

 _"It_ , Richie." There’s a pause. The emphasis leaves him chilled. " _It_ got Eddie."

"No," is the first thing out of his mouth when he spins back around, ignoring the sound of his character getting pummeled behind him. "Dude, what're you—no, _no_ , he's fine. His mom won't let him out, he's—"

" _Look_."

Bill shoves something into Richie's hands—a crumpled white bag stained with dirt—and, emptying it, he catches sight of a cracked orange pill bottle, the label tattered and warped. 

In bold red letters, it reads: _YOU DIE IF YOU TRY._

Richie drops it like his fingers have been burned, jaw slackening in gut twisting surprise. His first instinct is to call it a prank, to laugh it off, to say Eddie's just being a little shit, trying to pay him back for all the times he got on his nerves, but he knows in his bones that's not true. Eddie wouldn't joke about _this_ after nearly becoming a bite-sized snack for Derry's resident creeper clown. There's nothing funny about it. 

But what if it's not _real?_ What if it's a trap? An ambush? 

"Back at Neibolt," Richie tries, insides squirming unpleasantly, "with that poster, you said it wasn't real. And with those fucking doors. You said it wasn't and—and you were right, so maybe—"

"Th-this isn't like that, Richie."

"How the hell do you know?" Richie demands, voice pitching higher than it has in awhile, almost matching Eddie's usual tone. 

"I was supposed to go meet with Be-Beverly but she didn't show up, so I went to go get her. Something happened with her dad, she can't s-s-stay there anymore. I was taking her back home and—and we saw that, in the street. The receipt has Eddie's name on it. My mo-mom said Mrs. K called to ask if he was with me. He went to the pharmacy and then he left but he never got home."

" _Fuck_ ," Richie spits, bending down to grab the bottle again. His eyes hadn't been playing tricks on him. The threat is still there. 

"Bev stayed at mine to call the others and I came to get you. We're gonna have to go back. To the w-w-well house. I think that's where It took him."

They chance a nervous glance around to make sure no one's been listening, then turn to stare at each other once more. Bill doesn't just look worried or scared, like Richie feels; he looks _guilty_. And resolved. Thinking of Eddie—of his big eyes and tiny shorts and fluffy hair tamed by crunchy gel, of bis inhaler and fanny pack and prized Lion-O figures, of his cackling laugh and dimpled smile and fierce, angry mannerisms—Richie feels that, too.

"I—I know this is my fault," Bill whispers. "I know I dra-dragged you all into this, but I'll do whatever it takes to get Eddie back, okay? I promise."

It seems significant that Bill is making this promise to Richie and no one else when Eddie is the one on the line, but maybe that's why. No matter how much he and Eddie get argue, purposeful or otherwise, they'd become close in their own unique way—thick as thieves, two peas in a pod, et cetera et cetera. The fact that Bill can sense that is terrifying and exhilarating all at once.

"Are you with me?"

"Yeah," Richie says without hesitation. "No shit I'm with you. It's _Eddie_. We gotta go get Eddie."

Patting Richie's shoulder, Bill nods.

"Let's go."

**& &&**

Something wet falls from far above, dotting Eddie's face in fat drops. His eyes fly open at the sudden sensation, a choked gasp ripping through his throat in a belated attempt to get the oxygen he'd been denied before.

His head hurts, limbs heavy like lead, as if he hadn't used them in years, brain pounding with the effort of sitting himself up. His knee stings and his ass hurts, both arms prickling with aching pain, and for a second he can't recall _why_. But the reason hits him—he'd been chased, attacked, choked—the moment he realizes what his surroundings look like.

Everything is damp and dark and _smelly._ He's on a patch of gravelly dirt, but there are endless puddles around him (greywater), with a humongous mass of junk in the center, reaching sky high. Or, well, _ceiling_ high, because he's enclosed… somewhere. _The sewers_ , he understands without really knowing. _A cistern._ He'd seen it marked on the map in Bill's garage.

Taking a breath, which he gags over because fucking _yuck_ , Eddie tries to put his wobbly knees beneath him so he can stand, maybe suss the place out. Get a handle on the situation. He can't afford to panic, not until he knows for sure whether or not he there’s a way to freedom, so he tries his best to remain calm. It doesn't help when he immediately buckles back down to the ground, hitting the lip surrounding some type of shaft before rolling into the water, groaning all the while. He manages to keep his cast above the mess, even as his face is doused with grainy droplets. 

Closer to the light shining down from a circular grate in the ceiling, Eddie can get a better grasp of his footing and makes sure he's securely upright before trying to move again.

He doesn't get far, however, before he freezes.

The pile of junk in the center is almost like a monument, cobbled together with an assortment of toys and clothing and random objects that appear old and unfamiliar. And then, floating like planets in orbit around the very top, are honest to God _bodies_ , limp and lifeless in their suspended positions. He retches, breath immediately quickening, heart rate spiking enough to make his vision flicker. Catching sight of what looks like a door slightly behind him and to the right, Eddie spins on his heel, socks squishing in the water, the hems of his pants clinging to his ankles, and splashes his way over to the rusty hatch. 

It's locked.

Eddie nearly erupts into hysterics.

" _No_ . Come on! Oh my God. Please. Fucking, shit, just—just _open."_

The clanging of the door banging against its frame grows louder the harder Eddie pulls. He braces the flat of his shoe against the wall, curves both sets of fingers around the handle, despite the twinge such a grip shoots through his plastered arm, and tugs with all his might, screaming under his breath at the lack of progress.

"Step right up, Eddie!" a distorted voice booms. Eddie whirls around, slamming his back against metal. "Step right up!" A twinkling musical number, similar to that of a music box, begins to play with increasing rapidity. "Come change, come float! You'll laugh, you'll cry! You'll cheer, you'll _die!_ Introducing… Pennywise the Dancing Clown!"

There's a laugh—maniacal, almost like Henry's from before—and then something pops out of a box nearby. No one is around to hear Eddie's startled yelp. _That_ thought, even more so than the wall of a wooden carriage falling to the ground to make a platform, is what gets him screaming again.

" _Help!"_ he shouts futilely, clinging to the door as fireworks shoot off behind him, signaling the start of an off-tune circus melody. It sends shivers down his spine. " _Somebody fucking help me!"_

The clown, Pennywise, is standing in the dissipating smoke, painted lips turned down in a mocking frown, staring dead-eyed at Eddie, a curvy tunnel of large orange masses pulsing at his back and shifting like clouds on a sunny day. And then, without It's cracked, bulbous head ever moving, without his wonky eyes ever straying, Pennywise begins to dance, the clomping of his feet against the platform echoing in an unsettling rhythmic pattern while the music scratches and slows, a needle on a broken record. There’s something about it that turns Eddie’s blood cold.

He shakes his head, inches himself along the wall. With nothing else to do, nowhere else to go, Eddie _runs_. 

It feels, for a split-second, like he makes some ground, that he goes far and free. It feels, for a split-second, like he can hear the voices of his friends, Bill's mumbling and Stanley's huffing and Richie's easy chuckling. And then it feels, for a split-second, like he's a worm being plucked from the dirt by a beady eyed bird's beak. 

He slaps at the arm holding him up, the gloved hand once again wrapped around his throat, and slams the bottom of his cast onto the ruddy round nose. He spins his legs like he's back on his bike, kicking the toes of his sneakers against the pom poms hanging off the torso of It's costume. 

"Oh, _Eddie Bear_ ," Pennywise mocks, sounding far too much like his own mother for his liking. "I can smell your fear. _Sweet, tasty_ fear. All for me."

"The'yre gonna—kill you. My friends," Eddie grits through the tension around his vocal chords, forcing himself to stare into those horrible yellow eyes. The thought of the others, the love he has for them and the love they share in turn, lights a fire inside Eddie's chest. "Yeah, they're gonna—kill you so hard, you'll wish you never messed with—with a bunch of loser kids!"

Eddie can picture it in his head, Bill and Bev and Mike storming in like cowboys from the Wild West, fighting Pennywise off to give Eddie a moment of hope. Stan and Ben would surely figure out how to escape this labyrinth unscathed, and Richie—he'd stand in front of him, back to the beast despite the terror that might bring, squishing Eddie's cheeks between his clammy hands. They're bigger than Eddie's, bigger than Bill's and Stan's, about the size of Mike's already, maybe, even though he's the tallest. But he'd hold Eddie's face, like he did in the house that’s somewhere above his current location, and say something stupid to make Eddie laugh, to make him feel safe.

_Geez, get a load of this clown, Eds! He thinks he's tough shit, but all we gotta do is bring your mom down here to sit on him. That'd kill the fucker dead for sure!_

He scowls at the voice in his head the same way he always does, never wanting to give Richie a bigger head by smiling. To him, with Richie, those two things might as well be mutually exclusive. 

Eddie, feeling himself get pulled closer, snaps to attention, eyes widening uncertainly when It sniffs his head like a bloodhound. He snorts through his nose, bells jingling with a full-body shake, his free hand rising up to join the other, covering both sides of Eddie's throat entirely.

"They'll come for you," Pennywise rasps, agreeing with Eddie's wishes. "But you'll wish they didn't.

His face splits apart, revealing clusters or spiny teeth littering the cavernous pink insides, globs of drool bracketing the diamond shaped tunnel in the midst of those thorny rows. Eddie opens his mouth—to yell, to cry, to spit, _something_ —but a trio of lights tucked into the center have him paralyzed in an instant. His body goes back to being heavy, bogged down by anchors instead of lead, until he’s weightless. Nonexistent. And inside his head begins a growing cacophony of terrified screams, blocking every inch of his brain that isn't responsible for feeling pain and fear. But even that is distant, so close to bordering on _nothing_ that he thinks he might already be dead, that this is what he's been dammed to.

( _Hey, Richie, listen! I think I got It! I think I killed It! I did! I think I killed It for real_ —)

**& &&**

Richie is really trying not to panic—that's Eddie's thing, not his—but it's super fucking hard when they've been faced with so much shit already, both literal and figurative. 

Mike had gotten attacked by a bloody Bowers, Stan had nearly had his face gnawed off by an elongated woman, and there are _actual severed heads_ bobbing around their legs the deeper they traverse. The smell keeps getting worse and worse, making Richie feel queasy, but that’s the last thing on his mind. The first? Saving Eddie. And also finding Bill because that fuckface had to go and run off on his own _again_. 

Richie, Bev, Ben, Stan, and Mike wade through an open hatch, their flashlights shining in dull beams across the dusty cavern. There's a glimpse of red in the air, of blue jeans and an off-white plastered arm marked with the word _loser_.

"Eddie!" Richie calls upon recognition, tripping in his haste to move forward. There's no response. He's just… floating. "How—how is he up there?"

"Guys," Bev whispers, fisting the back of Richie's over-shirt. "Look!"

"Are those…?" Stan trails.

"The missing kids," Ben breathes. 

"Yeah, and that's gonna be us too if we don't ge the fuck outta here!" Richie hisses, teetering on the edge of being able to keep his late breakfast inside his stomach. "We have to pull him down—"

"Here," Mike says, opening his arms and waving Richie forward. 

He takes the hint and grips onto Mike's shoulders, reaching up the second his feet leave the ground. With Mike's arms around his waist Richie stretches until his fingertips touch the toes of Eddie's filthy Geox sneakers. When he's got a good enough hold he grasps onto his ankles and gently lowers Eddie's body, slipping through Mike's grasp to put himself back on the ground. Ben and Bev hurry to help drag Eddie the rest of the way, as if he'll shoot right back up if they don't anchor him.

"Eddie," Richie tries again, shaking his shoulders and slapping his cheeks. A distressed sort of wailing sound tears through his throat at the sight or Eddie's eyes—the normally big, dark irises taken over completely by an otherworldly milky white film. "Eds, c'mon. Wake up, you fucking— _Bill!_ " he shouts over his shoulder, taking one hand off Eddie's round jaw to adjust his smudged glasses. _Where the hell is he?_

"What's wrong with him?" Stan asks carefully, shining his light directly into Eddie's face. Richie hates that the first thing he thinks is: _he looks dead_ . 

Richie shakes him again. No dice.

"He's not waking up…"

"Yeah, no shit!" Richie yells, sounding like he just got done sucking on a tank of helium. He turns back to Eddie with a sniffle, fingers spanning the breadth of his squishy cheeks. "Eddie, _please_ . I'm not playing around, dickhead. You have to wake up! Bill, you promised! _Jesus,_ what the fuck!"

He's crying now, he can feel the tears on his cheeks, though he's not quite sure what's caused it. He's scared and upset and angry, but all those things combined usually make him numb. Now, however, he just feels lost. Desperate. Like a piece of him is cracking open. He _hates_ crying in front of other people, usually avoids it at all cost, yet the comforting hands resting at his back make him think that maybe it's okay. They remind him that he’s not alone.

"What can we do?" Richie sniffles, bending to press his ear to Eddie's chest. There's still a heartbeat, sluggish but present. He shuts his eyes to stay connected with the sound.

"Maybe…" Stan mumbles consideringly, "maybe, since we got him down, we can take him outside? To a hospital?"

"Somehow I don't think they'll know how to fix this," Mike replies.

"T-t-taking him away from the source, whatever it is, might ma-make things worse." They startle at Bill's sudden reappearance, the sad frown painting his features doing little to calm Richie's riotous heart. At least they're all together. Pennywise can't hurt them this way.

"Um, what if..." Ben clears his throat like he wants to say something but isn't sure he should. 

Richie has no patience on a _normal_ day, let alone this one.

"Dude, spit it out!"

"I was just—it's kind of like a fairytale, right? Sleeping Beauty or—"

"The Frog Prince."

Beverly's smile has Ben dropping his gaze to the floor. Richie wrinkles his nose, sinuses burning. Stan scoffs.

"Which is it, reality or fiction? You can't have it both ways."

"Why not?" Bev demands. "Before, when I hurt It, I believed I could. Because I didn't want you guys to die. Maybe we need something like that here."

"Yeah," Ben predictably agrees. "In the books, whenever someone needs to wake up it's usually 'cause, um—it's usually a kiss."

"This isn't a fairytale!" Stan snaps, barely on the other side of hysterical.

"Yeah, this is more like one of Bill's shitty horror stories!"

"Well, fairytales are actually pretty dark, historically…" 

Ben clicks his mouth shut when everyone rounds on him in exasperation. 

"What else have we got? It w-wo-wouldn't hurt to try, right? Bev, maybe you can—"

" _Bev?"_ Richie explodes, a little green monster pounding its fists on the rungs of his ribcage. "You're joking. I mean, no offense, but Eddie barely freakin' _knows_ you. That Sleeping Beauty bullshit isn't gonna work."

"It f-f-feeds off fear, but we can fight back with b-belief. We got past those doors because we knew they weren't real, Richie. If Beverly believes she can wake Eddie up, ma-maybe she can."

"Stranger things have happened," Mike mumbles, gaze shifting rapidly back and forth. His grandfather believes in curses, it’s not surprising he thinks there’s a way to break one. 

"Whatever you decide, do it now," Stan says with a hitch in his breath. "Who knows where that _thing_ is."

"Richie," Beverly prompts, eyeing his face curiously, followed by the placement of his hands. They've slipped farther back, digging into Eddie's soft hair, cradling his skull. He tightens his grip.

They’re right, they must be, but not about Bev being the one. He doesn't doubt that she cares for them; not just Bill or Ben, _all_ the Losers, Eddie included. But she doesn't know him, doesn't _love_ him, the way Richie does. He can feel it thrumming through his veins, thicker than his own blood.

Richie Tozier loves, with a capital L, Eddie Kaspbrak. Not like a brother or a best friend; like a _lover_ , whatever that truly means to a boy his age. It freaks him out, admitting such a thing so brazenly to himself, but it's not really surprising. Not an _oh shit_ moment so much as an _okay, fine._

Eddie would probably hate him, if he knew. He'd be disgusted, confused, scared (all things Richie himself has felt, for sure), but something tells him that Eddie wouldn't turn away or quit Richie’s friendship cold turkey. They've been through too much for that. Plus, this is something he _has_ to do, to save Eddie from an uncertain fate. He doesn't just _think_ it'll work if he does it, he fucking _knows_ it will, can hear it so assuredly somewhere in the deep end of his mind. Richie loves Eddie so much that it doesn't even have to be requited, the way those stupid True Love kisses are in all the sappy movies and naughty books. His heart is full enough for the both of them.

Instead of allowing Beverly to nudge him gently aside, Richie stands his ground, sucking in a shuddering breath. Holding Eddie's head a little more firmly, a little more purposefully, tilting his neck back ever so slightly, Richie surges forward to smash their lips together in his— _their_ —very first kiss. 

There's a bunch of murmuring going on around him, though he can barely hear it over the sound of his heart attempting to burst from his chest, Alien style. His clothing clings to his body, damp and cool from splashing around in shitty water (much more uncomfortable now that he’s fucking _aware_ of everything, including his very own molecular structure), but the goosebumps that prickle across his skin are from something else, something deeper. A chemical reaction caused by an emotional bond being fulfilled. He'd gag if his lips weren't literally pressed to Eddie's, which makes him want to do anything _but_ that, like maybe scream and run away and dance and then scream again. He'd probably also want to kiss Eddie again, first and foremost, if he currently wasn't as responsive as a pillow.

For now, Richie puts all his emotions—all his wants and needs, wishes and dreams, fears and insecurities—into these final few seconds, thinking: _Eddie, wake up._ Thinking: _Eddie, please, I need you to wake up._ Thinking: _if this is my only chance, I have to make it count._

(Thinking: _Eddie, I love you._

Thinking: _this is what home is supposed to feel like._ )

Richie pulls away then, sucking in a shaky lungful of air, cheeks flaming at the five pairs of eyes boring into him intently. His lips are puffy and dry when he licks them, palms sweaty when they drop to rest atop Eddie's narrow shoulders. It's here that he feels his teeny torso quickly expand, a coughing gasp blowing harshly over Richie's nose, fogging his glasses on the exhale. 

The tension in his body slips away as the white film coating Eddie's irises slowly recedes, revealing their normal chocolaty hue. 

"Richie…" Eddie breathes, almost like an afterthought, barely a whisper before his pupils even find something to focus on. As he does, his freckled button nose scrunches in confusion. "Whoa, wait. Did you just—"

"Oh thank _fuck!"_

Richie flings himself at Eddie, who only manages to stay upright due to Stan and Mike's interference, before the others crowd around to join the awkward embrace. Eddie sets a tentative hand on Richie's back, the heat of him burning through his soggy tee, the weight of the cast pressed into his side a bittersweet reminder of their current situation. 

Richie doesn't want to think too much into what just happened, not here and now, but it settles in the back of his mind anyway, waiting to visit when he least expects.

"It worked," Stan whispers, not quite surprised but still sort of awed. 

Eddie draws his head away to look at the people surrounding him, and asks: " _What_ did?"

Despite what he told himself, Richie's relief is tinged heavily with sorrow. He hadn’t expected anything else, yet disappointment still comes a-knockin’.

A noise draws their attention soon after, a pitter-pattering behind the trash heap in the middle of the room causing them all to stumble into a crooked line, alert in a new way.

There's no time to dwell. They have a fucking clown to kill.

**& &&**

The others think they finished what they started, but Eddie isn't as confident. He'd… seen things, in those deadlights, flashes that make him think otherwise. He can't recall so clearly, even as they trek sewage and muck through town, though it happened not so long ago. Or perhaps it's been ages. An entire lifetime. It's all so fuzzy. 

Eddie hurts all over, neck bruised and knees stung, shoulder aching. He's grateful his broken arm hadn’t received any further trauma. All in all, the leper vomit covering the top half of his body is probably the most pressing issue.

Well, aside from—

He stomps it down.

But there is _one_ thing he can't seem to shake off.

"I saw us," Eddie blurts, slowing his pace to a crawl. The others, who are walking their bikes since Eddie doesn't have his, look back, practically stopping in their tracks. "I—I mean, we were older, like our parents, but we were back in the cistern."

"Why?" Stan demands.

"Wha-what were we doing?"

Eddie sighs. Picks at the frayed edges of plaster covering his knuckles. He'd had an injury in the vision, too. Something on his face that needed covering from a bandage. And then another, on his chest—

"That's the thing..." He laughs humorlessly, avoiding their gazes. "I don't _know_. I can, like, remember how we felt? We were scared, obviously, but… that's it."

"Am I still handsome as an adult?" Richie asks teasingly, resting his bike against his hip so he can prop his chin in both palms and flutter his lashes. His cheeks seem pinker in the subdued daylight and Eddie's mouth goes dry.

If he thinks about it, _really_ strains his brain, he might recall… broad shoulders, big hands, thick sideburns. Smaller glasses but an oversized forehead. There's stubble, which is super weird, even if it fits such a wide jaw, but that smile—it's still the same, bright and crinkly, holding the type of sunshine Eddie so often craves.

He very quickly leaves that thought in the dust.

"You looked like Gonzo," Eddie huffs, causing Beverly and Mike to snicker.

"What about me?"

Eddie tears his gaze away from Richie's exaggerated pout to squint at Stan, trying to place the pit of dread that surfaces when he comes up blank. There was… something about a wife, on the phone. 

"Um. I think you were married?"

That must be the right thing to say because Stan smiles brightly for the first time in weeks.

"Stan, you _dog!"_ Richie howls. 

Mike chuckles. 

"Maybe we should m-m-meet up soon. Get a better picture of what happened..."

Bill stares out into distance, seeing something that's hidden to everyone else. Eddie bites back a smile, knowing, somehow, that he'll be taller than Big Bill some day. 

They stop again after several more feet, sighing at the breeze that caresses their gritty skin. Eddie fixes one of his crusty socks beneath the hem of his ruined jeans, pausing when he catches sight of himself in a storefront window. _Derry Is Calling You_ , the glass reads. Eddie scoffs. (One day, however, he thinks they'll have no choice but to answer.)

God, he looks _disgusting._ And young. _So_ young. It's too bad he doesn't feel it.

"I can't go home like this, guys," Eddie says, suddenly dreading that eventuality more than anything else. The monster may be gone but his mother still exists, waiting for him at home, the one place he can't escape. "My mom'll kill me."

"Dude, you've been gone for twenty-four straight hours," Richie unhelpfully points out. Shit, _really?_ "Your face is definitely on a milk carton by now. Also, that puke smells worse than your mom's slippers."

"Oh shut _up_ , Richie," Beverly sighs. 

They start walking again, so Eddie darts forward, shoving at Richie with his good hand. "Okay, first of all my mom's slippers smell like potpourri, _asshole_ —"

"No they don't," Stan doubtfully replies.

"Yes they do! And also how would you know what they smell like in the first place?"

"Can we just keep it quiet, please?" Mike begs. "Until we get home?"

Eddie hardly hears him over the mix of his and Richie's voices. 

*******

Bill is the first one they see off, taking Beverly with him since apparently she can't or won't go home. Something about her dad. Eddie isn't privy to the details, but he gets it more than he wishes he did. 

Next is Ben, waving goodbye with a timid little smile, and then Mike who actually mounts his bike so he can get all the way out to his farm before evening fully hits. 

Stan and Richie lead the way to Eddie's place, keeping steady on either side—surprisingly quiet, though Eddie doesn't mind. He has simultaneously _too much_ and _too little_ buzzing around his brain like angry bees, can't bring himself to focus on any one thing for too long. Except for how he'd awoken. 

It's not that he doesn't _know_ ; the tingling in his lips had been a dead give away, as was the fact that everyone steered clear of mentioning exactly what happened, and Richie was _definitely_ trying a little too hard to appear normal. But maybe it's for the best, that they don't speak of it out loud. That they don't acknowledge it. Because they can't and shouldn't. It's _wrong_ (even if it might've felt so inexplicably right). 

He's here now, thanks to Richie, and that's all that matters.

Instead, Eddie should work on unravelling the shadowy notion that's been plaguing him since he opened his eyes. But he can't grasp onto it.

 _I would die for my friends_ , he thinks, not for the first time, as he side-eyes Richie the closer they get to the front steps of his house. The problem is… he swears, in whatever dream he had or vision he saw, that he _does_ . That he will. It's an awful thought to have and it makes him sick just thinking of such a future. He must have done something reckless and stupid and utterly _brave_ , and maybe that's the point. If it's fueled by love (like… like the _k i s s_ ), then maybe that's the purpose. Maybe that's the kicker. 

Before Eddie can dwell on it further, a nasty headache materializes to chase those mismatched tidbits away.

"Bye," Stan says without any other preamble, offering an awkward, wincing smile. The cuts on his face are fairly shallow but still fairly raw. Eddie shudders at the dried blood staining his temples, cheeks, and ears. 

"Bye, Stanley." 

Eddie watches him slowly roll his bike onwards, thinking he'll round the corner when he gets there. He doesn't, just stops, switches between staring down at his watch and up at a few birds soaring through the sky. Eddie shrugs and turns to look at Richie, who is already watching him with a bug-eyed stare. 

"So that was pretty fucking shitty, right?"

" _God,_ yeah."

Richie wiggles has glasses up the bridge up his nose. His arms flop down like noodles when he shrugs. 

"But I guess it's over now."

_It isn't._

"Yeah, I guess. I _hope._ We should wait to see what Bill says." 

"Hm. Well, glad you didn't die and all that." Eddie watches Richie chew on his bottom lip, suddenly struck with the knowledge that he _knows_ what it feels like pressed against his own, he just can't fully remember. "Saves me the trouble of having to comfort your mom, y'know."

"Shut up, Trashmouth," Eddie says through a slow-spreading smile. Richie matches it easily, just like always.

Eddie's insides jolt with a feeling so intense, it nearly knocks him over. He swallows and lets his tired feet guide him closer.

Eddie braces himself up against Richie's front without warning, wrapping his good arm around Richie's back while his cast gently presses into Richie's side. It doesn't take long for his hug to be returned, soft pats between his shoulder blades urging him to squeeze his eyes shut and heave a sigh. It's over quickly but their smiles remain after stepping away from each other, a weighty thing that lingers between them like something sacred and secret and sure. 

Eddie takes a breath. His fingers remain steadily at his sides, nowhere near his inhaler. He feels… oddly calm. It won't last, but he clings to it regardless.

"See ya, Rich."

"Later, loser."

Eddie turns away before Richie does, taking the steps as slow as possible, not wanting to go inside. But the knob sets cool beneath his fingers sooner rather than later, so as he twists and pushes he throws one last glance over his shoulder, only to fint that Richie hasn't moved an inch. Eddie waves, belly swooping low when Richie returns it hastily. _I must be hungry_ , Eddie reasons, ignoring the fact that he often feels this way whenever Richie is around. _Really, really hungry._

"Pip pip and tally ho, Stanley the Manley!" Richie calls just before Eddie shuts the door, making him laugh beneath his breath.

Then, as he tiptoes through the house in search of his mother, squaring up to face the music, Eddie wonders what he and Richie will be like at forty, wonders what the future _really_ has in store.

Then he wonders why the fuck he's still creeping around the eerily silent house when he could be scrubbing himself clean with a shower.

**& &&**

It's quiet, which wouldn't be unusual if not for the curious looks Stan keeps sending Richie's way. He's got something on his mind, that much is obvious, but Richie doesn't really want to hear it right now. He figures he knows what it's about anyway. 

( _Get the fuck outta here, faggot!_ )

He hunches his shoulders up to his ears and continues on down the road. 

When Stan finally _does_ open his mouth, Richie flushes with utter humiliation. 

"You know… there have been reports detailing how some male birds, like Greylag geese, seem to engage in courtship and mounting with other males of their species."

"Jesus Christ, Stanley! What the fuck?"

To his credit, Stan remains unfazed. 

"I know what society says, and religion, but it happens with animals in nature, which means—I suppose that means it's natural, in a way."

"What're you even yapping about?" Richie grumbles, hoping that playing dumb might get him off the hook. 

Stanley barrels on.

"Animals don't choose to do anything except survive, the only way they're able. They don't have complex reasoning or sinful desires like we do, they just… exist. As they were meant to. But I think, when someone is different, sometimes it feels like _they're_ just trying to exist too. That's how it is for me, at least." 

"Because you're a Jew?"

Stan rolls his eyes.

"Yes."

"Okay, well—there are lots of Jews, Stanley. You've got a whole church of 'em here." 

"All over the world, too. Same as with people like you. It's still easy to feel alone."

"Wait, like me _what?"_

"I hear about _The Falcon_ a lot. Don't you? About the type who go there?"

Richie nearly trips on a pebble in his haste to stop short. His bike clatters to the pavement.

"What're you—what're you trying to say, huh?" he demands, heart lodged in his throat. If he pukes he's afraid it might pop right out.

"Do you want me to speak plainly?"

"No," Richie croaks. 

Stanley, the bastard. He does it anyway. 

"Why were you so sure Beverly would fail if she tried getting Eddie out of that trance?"

"Be _—because!_ She's cool and everything, her and Ben and Mike, and I'm happy we're friends, but… c'mon, man. It's been the four of us for a long time. We've known each other longest."

"Then why not ask Bill? He was Eddie's friend first."

Richie inhales sharply through his nose. His eyes sting.

"So? Me and Eds, like, bonded and whatever. So did you and Bill. Get on with it, Professor, what's your point?"

"My _point_ is that you didn't ask either of us to try."

"Would you have wanted to?!"

Richie's voice echoes across the barren street. 

"No," Stan says calmly, understanding that the silent counter to Richie's point is 'because _I_ did,' and for some reason that feels so _final_ . As if he's telling Richie point blank: _this is what you are._ "I think you knew it wouldn't work for Beverly because the way she cares for Eddie isn't the same way _you_ care for him."

"What, you believe in all that fairytale bullshit now?"

"I… I don't know," is Stan's troubled response. "All I can count on is what I saw. And _what I_ _saw_ was how much _you_ believed, Richie, and that it worked. You saved Eddie's life."

"Okay."

"Because you love him. You love him _differently_ than how you love the rest of us."

 _Yeah, and what of it?_ Richie wants to say. All that comes out of his mouth is a pathetic little sob. 

He throws himself down onto the hot sidewalk, pushing his glasses up his face so he can cover his eyes with his hands, a mirror of what he'd done in the park before that Paul Bunyan statue tried to slash him to pieces. 

Richie finds himself unraveling as Stan takes a seat beside him, pressing their shoulders together to let him know he's there, that he's not going anywhere. Which would be nice if he didn't want Marvin the Martian to appear in the sky and zap him to another planet.

He knows how he feels, what he is, and if he's honest with himself then he can admit he's known for awhile. The problem had been _other people,_ their taunts and dirty names and disgusted looks. It'd been bearable when only scum like Bowers, like those gossipers at the arcade, merely _thought_ they knew, but now Stanley too? One of Richie's best friends? He can't stand being so exposed but he can't bring himself to make a joke, either. He'd seen that kiss with his own two eyes, anyway. 

"Animals exist how they were meant to," Stan says quietly, pointedly ignoring Richie's snotty sniffling, "and so do you, Richie Tozier. So do I. So do all of us Losers. Understand?"

Richie shakes his head on instinct, but once the words settle… something calm begins to wash over him, and he nods instead.

"Yeah," he replies after several long minutes. For once, it doesn't feel like giving up or giving in. "I—I think."

"Good." There's a beat where the birds sing in a distant tree, probably the last to do so before darkness hits, and Richie uses this time to wipe his eyes and nose and clean his glasses off on his less-than-clean shirt. Good enough, just like him. Probably. "So when you and Eddie pick fights with each other... that's the way you two flirt, isn't it?"

Richie tries not to flinch.

"First if all—humans are mammals and mammals are animals, yadda yadda, I get your metaphor, but that doesn't mean you can fucking _study_ me, alright? I'm not a pigeon on a telephone pole."

"Right. Sorry."

"And second, that's not _our_ way. Just mine. Eddie isn't—" He grimaces. "Eddie doesn't feel the same. Period."

"I wouldn't be so sure."

The sun is no longer high in the sky, but the back of Richie's neck _burns_.

"I said period!"

"Yes, and what _I_ said was a new sentence, which often comes after a period."

"Shut the fuck up, nerd."

"You have a higher grade point average than I do."

Richie's lips stretch into a wide, wet grin.

"And I bet it just _kills_ you to say that."

Stan _hmphs._

"It's only because people liked your science project more than mine." 

"Yeah, 'cause I wasn't fuckin' _boring_ everyone to tears. I actually made Mr. Smith laugh!"

"Whatever."

" _Whatever,"_ Richie mocks. Their laughter is quiet, lasts only a moment, but it's wonderfully free.

"It's okay, you know. You kissing Eddie."

"Sure. I saved his life. But, um, is it okay that I _liked_ it?"

Stan blinks at him, closing one eye as he pretends to think it over. Richie kicks a pebble toward him.

"Yeah, Richie. To the people who matter, it is." Stan pushes to his feet, straightens his spine, and takes hold of his bike. "I really need to go." 

"You can't tell anyone," Richie decides, hopping up to join him, bouncing with nervous energy.

 _We saw_ , Stan's eyes say as they flit curiously around Richie's features. _It's not hard to guess._

 _If you say it then it's real,_ he hopes his face conveys, complete with all the stress he feels. _And when it's real it hurts._

Sighing heavily, Stan gives a jerky nod. He knows that very well.

"I promise I won't."

And then Stan is gone with a wave, pushing his bike the rest of the way home, enjoying the breeze as he disappears from Richie's view. He stands there awhile longer, mindlessly squeezing the handles, a crazy idea taking hold. 

_If you say it then it's real,_ Richie repeats in his head, throwing his leg over the bar so he can actually sit on the seat for the first time in hours. _And it can't be._ Not in Derry. But there's another way to get it out, to let his emotions flow like never before. The talk with Stan had only lit a fire under Richie's ass that is sure to rage the longer he keeps it in. So he won't.

He heads home first, to a house that's— _for once_ —blessedly empty. He showers in peace, stuffs his face with leftovers from the top shelf, and raids his father's sock drawer for the pocket knife he knows is stashed in the back. Then, mounting his bike once more, he allows himself to pedal toward the Kissing Bridge. 

What Richie doesn't know is that later—after his fingers have been marred by tiny slivers born from an uneven R, a desperate +, a careful E—a freshly washed Eddie will sit down at his tidy little desk and mark something of his own. 

On his cast, over the S Greta Keene had rudely written, Eddie will scribble a big red V—driven not by transparent understanding, but by an intrinsic desire he isn't quite ready to accept. Even so, after he sets the pen down and stares at his correction with a tilted head, Eddie will think of Richie, just as Richie will think of Eddie while coasting away from the bridge and the secret he'll let the old wood keep.

Maybe Eddie has a secret, too. 

Maybe, just maybe, it means the same thing.


	2. August 2016

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [warnings for: stan not surviving, canon fat joke about myra, maybe some internalized homophobia, mention of arcade incident]

**August 2016**

Eddie's head is pounding. 

He'd had another nightmare, the fifth in as many nights, which is far more frequent than the burst of blurry images he'd been getting sporadically for the past twenty-odd years. It's his anxiety, Dr. Handor said. He listened to Eddie bitch about Myra banning him from the daily jogs he'd recently taken up ( _ it's too dangerous Eddie you have delicate joints Eddie you could fall or get heatstroke Eddie what if you get mugged _ ) before upping his dosage of Prozac and recommending he invest in some at-home gym equipment, to keep the marriage healthy too.  _ It's about compromise, _ he'd told Eddie for the millionth time, as if  _ he  _ were the only unreasonable one, and Eddie had shouted:  _ yeah, great, but what the fuck is she compromising for ME?  _

The point is, Eddie has been having a rough week, more so than usual—which is absolutely saying something considering how stressful his weeks usually tend to be. Maybe he needs more Lisinopril, too.

Anyway, the higher dosage seems to have made things worse, he guesses, because he's having more nightmares now than he ever has before. (As far as he can remember. Which isn't very far, actually, but he's never had a brain injury so no one knows  _ why _ .) But they're horrible things that keep him from getting the rest he needs, right alongside Myra's snoring, filled with blood and darkness, filled with  _ death _ . There are clowns, sometimes, dancing in the dark to music that leaves Eddie empty, and a diseased man that shifts into a boy with glasses that hide his entire face. And there's water, always water—beneath a cliff, rushing through a tunnel, stagnant in a bathtub. 

There are faces in his mind's eye that he doesn't recognize, though the hold a strange sense of familiarity all the same. It's woken him up a few times, a surreal sensation of a hand on his shoulder, soft words repairing the heart that's so often been chewed on and spit out. But the thing that jolts Eddie back to reality, nine times out of ten, is the white-hot burn in his torso when something sharp rips into him from behind. 

He starts sweating beneath his suit jacket at the memory alone. 

"—I keep telling you not to scare me like this—" Oh, right. He's on a call. "—and you never listen to me!"

Eddie reaches for a compartment beneath his dash, grabbing his bottle of Xanax and popping the lid off with his thumb.

"Myra, please," he grunts, shaking a couple into his mouth to swallow dryly. "Not now.

"You shouldn't be out there! Eddie, it's not safe to drive when the roads are slick like this."

" _ Sweetheart,  _ it stopped raining like three hours ago, alright? Everything's gonna be fine—"

A taxi swerves beside him on the left, his blaring horn cutting into Eddie's practiced placation.

"Hey,  _ dickhead!  _ Flow of traffic mean anything to you?!"

"What if you hydroplane?" Myra complains above the noise.

"I'm not gonna hydroplane!" he snaps. Then, thinking of his blood pressure, adds a little more calmly: "It's my  _ job _ to assess risks, so please trust me when I tell you that, statistically speaking, I am much more likely to get into an accident because I am talking to  _ you _ on the  _ phone. _ " He takes a deep breath, readying his finger over the call button on his steering wheel. "Alright, I have to go. I'll talk to you soon. Goodbye." His phone rings again just after he hangs up, signalling a new call. His relief over being free of Myra for the day is almost palpable. He answers the next call with a smile. "Edward Kaspbrak speaking." 

"You didn't say 'okay, bye, I love you' like you usually do."

Eddie could just fucking  _ scream. _

" _ Listen to me!  _ I can't! I'm gonna be late to this—"

Another call. Eddie glances at the screen on his dash, throat closing momentarily at the location that pops up. 

_ Derry, Maine _

Why… why does that seem like something he knows? He'd lived in Maine for awhile, hadn't he? That's what his mom once told him, though she made it sound as if he'd been too young to remember. But  _ Derry? _ What an odd  sinister name. 

(An image flickers behind his lids when he blinks. A storefront window.  _ Derry Is Calling You. _ He has no choice but to answer.)

"Uh—"

"Say ' _ I love you,' _ Eddie."

"Okay."  _ Derry, Maine _ makes his chest hurt. He can't look away. "I love you, mommy."

" _ What?" _

Shit. He dusts  _ that _ mistake quickly under the rug.

" _ Myra _ ," he hastily corrects, voice almost a whisper. "Bye." Eddie fumbles for the call button again, pressing it with a shaking finger. He supposes the Xanax has yet to kick in. "Hello? Who's this?"

"It's me," a deep, soothing voice says on the other end, like Eddie should know by that alone. "Mike."

( _ Rocks flying back and forth, too many bodies cramped in a booth, music playing softly beneath giggly voices. _ )

"Mike who?"

He's suddenly jolted, tossed sideways into the door, shoulder stinging from the slight impact. It takes him a second to realize his Escalade has just been hit, practically T-boned at the intersection. His ears are ringing, heart pounding, and he knows it must be the adrenaline that takes away the usual anger or fear he'd have in a situation like this but it feels like something else, too. Like he's shedding his skin, replacing it with a new layer he feels strangely intimate with, as raw and tender as it is.

"Eddie?! You okay?" 

"Yeah, I'm pretty good!"

That declaration remains the case, somehow, even after the cryptic call is over, after apparent childhood friend Mike Hanlon tells Eddie Kaspbrak that he needs to  _ come home. _ He made a promise, Mike claimed, along with himself and five others, and now the time has come for that promise to be fulfilled. 

Eddie doesn't know what the fuck he was talking about—he doesn't  _ think _ he knows, at least, but there  _ was _ a secret in his tone that got Eddie itching like he's just rolled around in poison ivy—and yet he didn't bother asking, didn't fish for information he sorely needed. All Eddie said was "alright, okay, yeah, I can catch a flight in the morning" and that'd been that.

He couldn't dwell on the strange call or his even stranger compulsion to comply with it for the rest of the evening, too busy dealing with insurance after that stupid fucking accident and then arriving to his meeting late, where he pretended he didn't feel on the edge of an asthma attack until he excused himself to go take a piss and had to suck on his inhaler for five whole minutes. 

When he got home a few hours after nightfall, well… that was a different story. Sort of. He'd packed his bags, told his wife there was a convention his yuppie underlings forgot to send him a memo for, and kissed her on the cheek just before rushing out to hail a taxi. She didn't ask about his Escalade. Outside of her blubbering about how dangerous it was to be unprepared for an out-of-state trip ( _ you don't know what the weather is like Eddie it changes all the time what if you run out of your medication Eddie and the pharmacy in Bangor isn't able to refill it _ ), he hadn't given her enough time to realize his Escalade was nowhere in sight, nor had he given  _ himself  _ enough time to consider why his first instinct was to lie.

( _ A new croquet set! Geez, spit it out, Buh-Buh-Buh-Bill! _ )

What could he have said, anyway? He didn't even know why the hell he was going (back to?) Derry, Maine. There'd be time for the truth later. Maybe.

Staring down at the overpacked bags he yanks through Bangor International, part of him must disagree.

The old scar on his palm throbs. Just like the healed fracture in his arm, he can't recall how it got there. He'll have to ask Mike. And Bill. And…  _ Richie.  _ Oh, Jesus Christ.

**& &&**

Richie's stomach is still a little twisty from earlier. He's surprised he didn't blow chunks a second time, after people started booing him for his dumpsterfire of a set, or even in the passenger seat of his Boxster on the way to the O'Hara. 

He'd popped a couple Ambien during the flight, so that had been fine, but now he's pulling his rented GT into the lot of Derry's only Chinese place, Jade of the Orient, feeling like he might keel over any second. 

Mike Hanlon. From Derry, Maine. 

The first thing that popped into Richie's head was the word loser—said with malice and loud snickering hidden behind grubby hands, then said with pride, with soft and easy laughter—followed by flashing lights in a dinky cinema at the center of town. Then, on his way to the fire escape to launch his lunch onto the street far down below, he recalled six silhouettes surrounding him as shadows, defining what it means to have a  _ home. _

_ Shut up, Richie! _

That high, fast little voice… it'd been the loudest, circling his head like cartoon birds, which was fitting since he sure as hell felt knocked out. Remembering the first, the  _ only _ , love of your life could really do that to a person, he guesses. How the fuck should he know?

And he doesn't, is the thing, because  _ yes _ he can see dusty colored memories dancing across his mind—revealing red shorts, sticky fingers, Bambi eyes, baby dimples— and  _ yes _ he can understand that the rush of foreign emotions crowding his chest belongs to a fidgety thirteen year old, but that doesn't  _ explain _ anything. 

Richie is reeling. 

He's hungry, too, which is the real reason he slides out of the car, shoving his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket as he traverses the darkening lot in front of the restaurant.

"Ben?" he hears a woman say, sweet and incredulous nearby. 

"Yeah," a gravelly male voice chuckles. 

"Oh my God…"

"Oh my God!"

There's a pause then, nervous giggles tinkling like bells, and as Richie walks up on the sight of two people embracing, he hears a quiet: "It's been so long…"

_Yeah,_ he catches himself agreeing, recognizing that if the fiery haired woman is Bev then the tall buff guy ( _how??_ ) must be Ben. The way those names spring so suddenly to the forefront of his mind, just like a fast talking boy named Eddie K, is miraculous.

" _ Wow _ ," Richie drawls, raising his brows above his glasses as they pull away. " _ You _ two look amazing. What the  _ fuck  _ happened to  _ me?" _ They stare at him quietly, not sure how to respond. "Richie," he prompts with a shrug, nodding along when Ben opens his arms. 

"Yeah, yeah!" 

They laugh together and it feels nice after the mess he's been reduced to these last twenty-four hours. Ah, who is he kidding? Richie has been a mess his whole life. 

He turns to Beverly after a couple of back slaps with Ben, unable to stop himself from smiling wider.  _ Molly Ringwald,  _ he's pretty sure he called her once. She flipped him off.

"Hi!"

"Hey!"

She smells like cigarette smoke when he tugs her close, igniting a craving within himself that he doesn't think he's had in a long time. Since college, maybe, when he quit. Never even knew when he started. 

"So what're we doin' here, guys?" he asks after they disentangle themselves. Truth be told, he's not sure why he didn't just tell Mike to fuck off. This town… well, he only just remembered it while in line to board the plane, and most of the memories surrounding the word  _ Derry _ happened to be sour.

Beverly looks away, smile faltering. Ben, however, keeps on smiling. 

"I dunno, man! Why don't we head inside and find out? The others might already be waiting."

"Others… right, right. Like, uh, Eddie? Eddie Spaghetti. Doctor K. And Mike. Mikey."

"And Bill," Bev says softly, darting her shimmering eyes between the two of them.

"Hey, Big Bill! Yeah! Jesus. I hope he's, like, bald or something. I can't be the only ugly one in the group. Unacceptable."

"Aw, man, come on," Ben says sweetly, slapping Richie's shoulder encouragingly. 

He rolls his eyes and shakes him off, nodding toward the door. Bev takes it upon herself to lead the way.

They're brought to a private back room once Ben murmurs the name Hanlon, the trio shuffling past a wall of fish tanks to stop at a large round table and a gong. As it turns out, there  _ are _ people waiting here, three others huddled in a corner, their backs to the entrance. They turn around with a start when Richie can't fight his urge to be as loud as possible.

_ Fucking hell. _

"This meeting of the Loser's Club has officially begun!" he announces, drinking in the sight before him. 

Mike is the tallest of the whole group, which isn't surprising—not like  _ Bill _ , who used to seem so big, so larger than life when he was leading the brigade on Silver's pedals, but is now so… small. Eddie, the baby of them all, is now taller than Bill  _ and  _ Bev, but still looks like a shrimp compared to Richie himself. Everything about him is compact, save for those huge puppy dog eyes, which rest in a face that's more hollow than before, chiseled and sharp. 

He was a cute kid, Richie can remember that vividly, and now he's a cute adult. Cute  _ man.  _ Handsome, even; in a grumpy, clean-cut, Wall Street sort of way.  _ Beautiful.  _

Richie aches when Eddie's eyes land on him, impulsivity spiking. He points to Ben and mimes the way he used to be, all chubby and soft, grinning wide when Ben catches him at it. Eddie's dimples are more prominent than ever. It's insane.  _ Richie _ is insane. What the fuck is he doing here?

"You'll get us k-k-kicked out before we even sit down," Bill teases.

"Wow, that never went away? Bummer." Richie jokes right back, grinning at the way Eddie's dimple winks at him when he turns a shiteating grin Bill's way. 

Did he like it when Richie used to make fun of people? Possibly. Just not  _ him, _ right? Or his mom.

They dogpile each other with more hugs, laughing and swaying like they  _ know _ each other. And, okay, right now it really fucking feels like they do. It feels like no time has passed at all, which is weird considering he hadn't remembered any of them, at least not concretely, until he got that call.

Eddie just so happens to get pushed against Richie's arm in the shuffle, and he clings to it like a baby koala, practically pawing at his shoulders. Richie catches sight of a ring glinting on his left hand and his heart nearly falls out of his ass, a frankly  _ ridiculous  _ reaction to have over someone he hasn't seen in over twenty years, but Richie has built his life being as ridiculous as possible, so it's fine. 

_ But not really. _

Because Eddie Kaspbrak is fucking  _ married _ , while all of Richie's quote-unquote relationships have been short and bleak and wrong. He'd chalk it up to not being as attracted to women as his career might suggest _(ie_ _ not at all _ _)_ but his sordid gay hook-ups—his dirty little secrets—always felt the same, just with some  _ actual _ pleasure and then a heaping dose of shame sprinkled on.

Richie shoves all that back into its overflowing box and forces a smile when Eddie nudges him in the stomach. He doesn't know him anyway,  _ they _ don't know  _ each other _ . Whatever he's feeling is just—residual. And it's intense because it came flooding back out of nowhere. That's all.

They break away not long after, so they can take their seats. Richie is tempted to steal one of the two beside Eddie, but thinks better of it at the last second. Everything is so confusing right now, he needs a buffer to make  _ one _ damn thing easier. 

(The fact that there are seven chairs and only six butts to fill them is something that registers somewhere far off in Richie's brain.)

"So can we get this party started or what? Bring on the shots!"

The alcohol comes quickly, glasses clinking in the center before they down them together. Richie shows off a little, using an interesting technique he learned a few years back. It's probably more embarrassing than sexy, though Eddie eyeing him with furrowed brows is certainly something he'll think about later. Because he hates himself. Which is so probably the reason behind what he says next.

"So, wait, Eddie, you got  _ married ? " _

He could add  _ like Beverly _ , because now that he thinks about it he  _ had _ heard about fashion designer Beverly Marsh tying the knot to fellow designer Tom Rogan; or  _ like Bill, _ because everyone knows Hollywood royalty, Audra Phillips, married the weird horror writer in a whirlwind ceremony one summer day. But Richie doesn't say those things, nor does he ask about Ben, whose private life is  _ actually _ private, for someone also in the public eye, or Mike, who he currently knows jackshit about. And then there's—

"Yeah. Why's that so fuckin' funny, dickwad?"

Eddie's defensiveness is interesting. And completely in line with the rose-colored echoes tickling the backs of Richie's eyelids.

His grin feels more like a grimace.

"What? To, like, a woman?"

"Fuck you, bro," Eddie replies, pointing at Richie with a chopstick. His jaw—no longer round from youth, now narrow and more defined—flexes twice, wide eyes twitching. " _ Fuck  _ you."

"Fuck  _ yooooou! _ "

Bill asks about him next—calling him Trashmouth, the first person to do so outside the boundaries of his career in… geez, maybe  _ forever _ —with Beverly jumping in to insist there's no way Richie ever tied the knot. He says, innocently, that no, he definitely has! Setting himself up for the punchline that everyone must see coming, except Eddie, who demands to know  _ when _ , like he'd missed it somehow, some way. It occurs to Richie, then, that perhaps Eddie is a  _ fan _ , and wouldn't  _ that _ be fucking wonderful?

He relishes the snorting, squirmy laughter he gets from the Losers at the table when he says "me and your mom are very, very happy right now," tacking on a voice to really get them rolling with it, basking in the weird sort of high he receives from their amusement.

Eddie is furious, however, and turns to shout at Ben for his obvious amusement. Just like old times.

"Wait, let's talk about the elephant  _ not _ in the room: Ben! What the fuck, man?" 

"Okay, okay, so obviously I lost a few pounds…"

"Yeah, no shit you lost a few," Eddie remarks, eyeing Ben in a way that Richie  _ gets _ , even if it makes him totally jealous.

"You're, like, uh—you're hot!" It's an objective fact, that's all. Everyone at the table agrees. "You're like every Brazilian soccer player wrapped up into one person."

"Leave him alone," Beverly cuts in after Ben’s shifty blushing becomes too much. "You're embarrassing him."

"Okay, alright! Okay,  _ please. _ Is Stanley coming or what?"

Everyone pauses.

It is strange, now that Richie recalls, to be here without their final member. No lucky seven. He hadn’t even thought about it. His lips part in a silent  _ oh _ . 

"Stanley," Eddie murmurs as he sits back in his chair, balled up napkin dropping to the table. There's something haunted about the pinch of his thin mouth, but Richie can’t place  _ why _ .

"Stan, uh…" Bill begins, "Stan Ur—"

"Stan Uris."  _ Animals exist how they were meant to. _ "Stan  _ Urine." No Richie! She's not hot! _ "Stanley Urine! No, no, he's a fuckin' pussy, he's not gonna show."

(He's not sure why that's relevant, why Stan would be too scared to meet with them; not sure why he, himself, was so filled with nerves after hearing Mike's name that it literally made him  _ sick. _ The question cannot be asked.)

"Why would Stanley save you anyway?" Eddie adds, tense around the eyes despite his teasing smile. "Was  _ I _ not the one who basically performed surgery—after Bowers cut you up! Holy  _ shit, _ that's right!" 

God, yeah. Richie remembers hanging around behind Keene's, near that creepy Bradley Gang mural, keeping Ben company until the others rushed back outside. Eddie, with his perfectly gelled hair and overly stuffed fanny pack, touched Ben's bloody stomach even after he spent the whole ride over complaining about the AIDS epidemic. It always fascinated Richie, the dichotomy of Eddie Kaspbrak; the version of him that came out to play with storming eyes versus the version that let his mommy lock him away because he had the sniffles.

But that time in the alley had also been the first encounter with Beverly Marsh, who joined their little unit the moment Bill invited her to the quarry. They’d only gotten stronger after that, until September. Things had started going downhill after that.

Eddie didn't become a doctor like they would have guessed, but is instead some great assessor of risks. Richie pretends to fall asleep while Eddie explains his work for an insurance company, pissing him off yet again, a goal he used to strive for. There's a spark in his eyes that's been slowly growing brighter. Richie nearly gets lost in the shine. 

When Beverly proposes a toast, it's to  _ them,  _ the Losers Club. Richie can’t believe he ever forgot he’d once been a part of something so special. For the first time in a long time, he feels like he finally belongs. And when Eddie challenges him to an arm wrestling contest, shouting  _ let's take our shirts off and kiss  _ (they had, so long ago, down in the cistern, with shirts  _ on _ , only one of them awake) like he's drunk off one measly shot, Richie feels on fire. The two aren't closely related, but they fill him with combined exhilaration all the same.

He  _ wants _ . So, so much. But that’s nothing new. 

**& &&**

Eddie recognizes Richie from his dreams. The tall, broad man with sideburns and glasses. He recognizes all of them, of course (except Stanley, who isn’t here to know for sure; he doesn't want to think about it), but Richie the most. 

He didn't know it at the time because all the faces in his dreams were blurry, but the things he  _ could  _ see match up perfectly. Like Beverly's red-orange hair. He'd conjure private conversations the two shared about their parents while the sunlight made her head look like fire. And if Eddie ever heard a stutter he'd think about the quietly confident boy he'd chase after on his bike, now able to recognize those images as Bill. He'd see a chubby boy with stacks of notebooks labeled  _ Ben H _ falling out of a bag or feel a solid presence, of who he can now name as Mike Hanlon, cradling a sheep in his arms and expressing regret over what he'd have to do to it. There was a boy with curly hair and a bandaged face that somehow related to a stark white tub and a deafening  _ dip dip dip _ of blood hitting tile, but that's always been the hardest to understand. 

And then—well, and then there was Richie, with plastic frames taking over most of his face, save for puffy lips that often had trouble hiding crooked teeth and baby overbite. He had large hands for a boy his age, Eddie knows, because he was always struck with how much  _ bigger _ that tall, broad man with sideburns used to seem in those nights where terrors took a backseat (and on nights when they didn't;  _ blood on Richie's wider mouth, on his sharpened cheekbones, in the cracks of his modern specs, wrapped around a thick finger like a promise. _ )

Now that he thinks about it, maybe that familiarity is why he'd been drawn to Richie "Trashmouth" Tozier's weird, mildly sexist comedy in the first place. He recognized him, on some instinctive level. Could tell the jokes he was lobbing left and right weren't fully his own. And now Eddie recognizes him in another way _ , _ as he stands before him with crazed eyes, scrambling to shove his thick biceps into a leather jacket after the shit they'd just seen,  _ fucking _ —bug babies and sizzling sludge and crawling eyeballs and feral bats.

It is back.  _ It.  _ Pennywise.

Beverly had whispered the name that's plagued Eddie for twenty-seven years, and just like that he'd been flooded with visions in a complete sensory overload that he  _ still _ can't fully comprehend the situation. 

"Uh, hello, Mrs. Uris? My name's Beverly Marsh. I apologize for calling, but I'm an old friend of your husband's…"

"You lied to us," Eddie tells Mike, feeling something building and building, ready to explode. "That's not okay!"

"Yeah, first words outta your mouth should've been like 'hey man, wanna come to Derry and get  _ murdered?' _ 'Cause then I would've said  _ no _ . Fuckin' entrapment, man."

"Guys," Ben hisses, nodding to Bev's phone. When the voice on the other end begins to cry, Eddie's insides freeze like blocks of ice. 

"Oh, he… he passed. Yesterday. It was horrible, the way he died. His wrists..."  _ Guess Stanley could not cut it.  _ "The ba—"

"Bathtub," Eddie whispers, the word forcibly tumbling past his lips. 

Stanley Uris died the same way Eddie had been dreaming. He  _ knew _ , somehow, just like Pennywise did, and there's nothing to be done about it now.

Eddie has seen it all, he understands, as he looks between the teary, shocked faces of the people he once loved more than anything else in the world. They're  _ all _ going to die, whether they leave like Richie is currently demanding, voice pitched in anguish and fear, or they stay, fulfilling an oath they made decades ago, when they were young and stupid and  _ brave. _

In a cavern, Bill and Bev are both going to drown and Ben will suffocate. Mike will be stabbed with a spindly talon and Richie, his mind will be shattered in those lights, the  _ deadlights _ , the same ones that had captured Eddie at thirteen years old. Unless Eddie saves him.

There's a split path here, forks in all the roads, but the only change Eddie sees involves Richie, his life being spared in exchange for  _ Eddie's _ , who might otherwise walk out unscathed, albeit completely and utterly  _ alone. _

There's an argument going on beside him, between Mike and Richie and Ben, but Eddie can't focus. He presses a palm against his chest, fingers curling into the baby blue fabric of his polo. Suddenly he can't  _ breathe. _ He searches his pockets with frantic, stunted motions.

"Eddie? Eds— _ Jesus _ , look what you're doing! Just shut the fuck up about the fucking clown! Eddie—"

Richie's hands are on his shoulders, helping to steady him as he finally yanks the inhaler up to his mouth for a couple quick puffs. 

"Eds, try to calm down. You're having a panic attack—"

"I have fucking  _ asthma _ , you dick!" he shouts.

"Dude, you have  _ anxiety. _ You're, like, the most anxious person I've ever known, and that's saying something considering I know myself."

"Okay," he agrees, because he  _ does _ have anxiety and multiple prescriptions to prove it, "but I also have asthma, so fuck you."

"No, you don't," Richie tells him, but it's not as dismissive as it could be, not like the way Myra shoots him down. Richie says it like he  _ knows _ it's a fact, like he  _ knows _ Eddie better than anyone.

_ ( T hey're gazebos! _ He'd shouted at his mother upon returning from what they hoped was the end. He knew it wasn't.  _ They're bullshit ! ) _

"Dude, get off my dick," Eddie snaps, ignoring Bill's sniffling, Bev's chain smoking, Mike's rustling journal. 

Richie blinks. He shoves his hands into his pockets and steps away, shrugging. 

"Look, I'm not sticking around, alright? If you guys wanna be a full course meal for some candy ass motherfucker, be my guest, but I'm  _ done _ here. And if any of you are smarter than we were that summer, you'll get the fuck out too."

"Richie, people are gonna die," Ben says at the same time Mike adds, "We made a promise," but he isn't having it. Eddie is almost shocked by his old friend's new bitterness. 

"People die every day, man! Sorry, but that's the truth, and  _ fuck _ that promise. Are you kidding me? We were kids! We don't—we don't owe this town  _ shit! _ Eddie, c'mon. I'm right about this."

"You said… you said you saw us," Bev whispers, teary cheeks shimmering in the cigarette's cherry light. "You said we were older, like our parents. Like we are now."

"The deadlights," Bill deduces. "You s-sa-saw something. What—what did you see, Eds?"

They're all staring at him now, waiting for some big reveal. Eddie doesn't know how to help or appease them. He doesn't even know what fucking  _ day _ it is. Time is irrelevant, it seems. Just like everything else.

"I don't—I don't know! God,  _ fuck _ , I just—"

"Did you see Stan?" Richie asks, looking almost like a stranger with how serious his expression is. Which is funny since, if you wanna get technical, someone you haven't spoken to since you were sixteen  _ would _ constitute as a stranger, and yet Richie doesn't feel that way to Eddie. His eyes… he swears those eyes are a different shade, lighter with age, but they're still unmistakably  _ Richie's;  _ not the Trashmouth bouncing around on stage, but the one Eddie used to share comics and ice cream with. "Did you see, did you—"

"Yeah," Eddie says, throat dry as sand. "I think so. But I couldn't remember. Any of you. And I didn't understand. I mean, they were nightmares. People have nightmares, alright? That's normal! And my therapist said it was anxiety, anyway. But lately they've been—they've been really bad. I felt  _ wrong _ . But—"

"It's okay," Ben says, gravel-voice careful and soft. "It's okay, Eddie. Take a breath."

"But I didn't _ know _ , okay? Mike called and I—I fucking crashed my car, I told you that, and then I packed my shit and hopped on the first flight I could get, all of you did the same, but the fucking—the  _ cookies _ , and, and the  _ call _ , and Richie's stupid fucking jokes—"

"What the fuck?"

"Stan's dead! He's fucking  _ dead, _ " Eddie squeaks, palm aching as fierce as his forearm, as his head. "And if we leave—Rich, if we leave we're gonna die, too."

"Yeah, well. I think I'd rather fling myself off fuckin' Wilson Tower than stay here and put up with this shit."

"Richie," Beverly sighs, sounding exhausted already. But it's Eddie who shuffles closer to grab his elbow. 

"Do we really have a choice?"

He hates how hopeless he sounds, and normally he'd be running for the hills, same as Richie, but now he knows there's no real point. They sealed their fates with blood all those years ago. It's time to end it all.

"Really?" Richie huffs, shaking his head at this whole damn mess. "You of all people are gonna ask me that?"

"We don't have a choice but we might still have a chance," Mike states after a tense moment of eyeing each other up. They've grown so much.  _ God _ , they're all old. The little boy trapped inside Eddie wants to scream and cry. "I've been doing research this whole time, looking into everything and anything I could possibly find. There was a tribe, the Shokopiwa, and their people—a long, long time ago, their people came into contact with a creature that could shift into their greatest fears. They—they had a ritual. They told me all about it,  _ showed _ me. And I can show you, too. If we go to the library right now, you'll see for yourselves how we can do this, how we can win."

"Mike…" Ben rubs at his eyes, glances back at the glowing neon of the Jade's sign. "No offence, man, but if they fought this thing and won, why is it still around? I mean, we thought we killed Pennywise too, but here we are. Is it even possible?"

"What if this ritual just buys more time?" Bev wonders. "Same as the first time. Twenty-seven years, fifty, one hundred. If it keeps coming back… is this even worth it?"

"Hey, yeah!" Richie quickly chimes in. "There you go. No matter what we do this fucker is gonna survive, so let's just—let's kick the can down the road, right? Study up, find some real answers. Maybe live out the rest of our shitty lives before we give it all we got."

"We'd be seventy years old, asshole!" Eddie hisses, cutting his hand through the air to drive his point home. His heart skips a beat when Richie's eyes track the movement, tongue darting out to wet his lips. "And we  _ can't _ leave, do you have fucking dementia? I literally just told you why!"

"Well, fine then! Excuse me for wanting to find a way  _ not _ to die, Jesus Christ. Don't any of you have anything to live for? Eddie, you have a fucking wife!" His gut churns. Coming here, remembering his past (and potential future), he'd almost completely forgotten about the present. "Come on! And at least four of us standing here are fuckin' loaded, let's call, like, I dunno.  _ Buzzword Unsolved _ or some shit. Why does it have to be  _ us? _ "

"Why n-no-not us, Richie? Who else?"

He throws his hands in the air and takes a wide step back from them. From Eddie. 

"Spare me your martyr complex, Bill. If we stay here you know damn well this is all gonna end worse than one of your books. Now maybe that's okay with you, but—"

"Guys, look,  _ please _ ," Mike begs, holding his hands up like he's trying to comfort a bunch of spooked animals. Eddie remembers him doing that a long time ago, when Eddie and a sheep had bleated at each other and booked it in opposite directions. Richie had laughed his ass off. Eddie wants to see him that light and free again. "What I found is going to work, you have to trust me. You have to  _ believe. _ Just—someone, someone come with me and see. The rest of you can wait at the Town House and if you aren't convinced after, if you think I'm wrong, then you do what you decide. But…" Mike swallows hard. He looks tired. Desperate. "But if you remembered like I did, like I  _ do _ , and you stayed in this place as long as I have, letting it feed off your soul, letting it drive you crazy… you'd know. You'd  _ know. _ "

Eddie looks away, over toward a group of people exiting the restaurant, laughing and smiling, living their lives. Eddie wishes he could do that. Without fear or regret or grief. But it's too late, he already feels all of those things in this very moment, in every moment since he left Derry with a book full of photos he'd lost in the shuffle, forgetting he was supposed to care. The only thing left to do is go forward. Hope for the best, prepare for the worst (know that the inevitable has always been in the works).

"I'll go," Bill volunteers.

Beverly wipes her tears, stomps on her cigarette, nods.

"Then we'll wait," she says. "We have to stick together. Okay?"

Ben nods immediately, but Eddie hesitates. He glances at Richie, who stares back at him for a long moment, brows pulled together in thought. Or pain. His stubbled cheeks puff out on a long exhale, head rolling against his shoulders when they slump.

Eddie turns back to the others and sighs.

"Let's get this over with."

**& &&**

Richie's mind is still stuck on the clubhouse when the group separates; stuck on crusty magazines and unwound cassette tapes, dusty shower caps and abandoned action figures, faded movie posters and buckets of musty trash. Stuck on Stan, who had been a stickler for order during their underground hang outs, though Richie is unable to decide what he'd say if he could see it now, as old as they are and even more haggard. And, finally, stuck on  _ Eddie. _ The memory of him, sure—the two hanging off each other in a broken hammock, trading snacks and books after the initial fight had worn into peace, chasing each other around support beams as his boombox got cranked up to eleven—but also Eddie as he is today, wrinkled and stoic and twitchy, with hints of velvet sweetness in his round eyes and dimples that dent his skin even when he frowns. 

He thinks of that face—as a child, a teen, a middle aged man, having only his imagination to fill in the gaps—as he ambles toward the boarded up theater, and then he thinks of something less treasured.

_ I'm not your fucking boyfriend. _

_ You assholes didn't tell me your town was full of little fairies. _

_ Get the fuck outta here, faggot! _

Had he been so obvious? Or was there just something about him, as a person, that eagerly tuned people in to all those things he wanted to hide most? Alone as he was, as he  _ is, _ Richie only wanted to feel an emotion other than fear. He'd been good at ignoring the strange swooping feelings he felt for Eddie, until _ — _ the lights. The kiss. Stan was the only one to question him after, but then, with Beverly moving and high school starting and that summer fading quickly behind them like it'd been surrounded in fog, everyone else seemed to ignore what they'd seen. What it could have meant. 

After the incident with Bowers and his cousin at this very arcade, Richie was glad for that. But now? Well. He feels nothing but bone-deep exhaustion, hatred, regret—because, after all this time, absolutely  _ nothing _ has changed. That fear is still in him, thriving, rearing its ugly head every single day of his miserable life, and when he's drunk enough or high enough or stupid enough to shove it to the side for some kind of momentary comfort, when everything returns it's ten times worse than before. 

It doesn't help that he swore up and down _ — _ to anyone who would listen, like the cynics who always thought they were better than everyone for the enlightened way they could view the world _ — _ that he had never been in love. Turns out, however, that he'd only  _ forgotten _ the sensation, those all-consuming desires his teenage dreams lit beneath him when Eddie Kaspbrak was in the room. He'd forgotten, not just the feeling but the  _ person,  _ and no amount of dressing room handjobs with tiny, short tempered, dark eyed men could compare. 

And  _ why, _ is the question? Eddie had been a loudmouthed twerp, in his Lion-O t-shirts and skimpy red shorts, carting around two fanny packs and screeching in Richie's ear about whatever struck his fancy in the moment. He never shut up, but neither did Richie, and perhaps that helped make their friendship so strong, that despite all their differences there was an underlying thread that kept them together in a messy, unbreakable knot. 

For as often as they spoke over each other, they were the only two who ever really seemed to  _ listen _ .

Richie thought, as he settled at the table in the Jade, that the bubbly feelings bouncing in his belly after seeing forty year old Eddie for the first time would have went away as the night progressed, but even with all of Derry's bullshit winding them up yet again, his distant Kiddie Crush remained present, clawing at his insides in a helpless fit. 

Is it because he never had the chance to get over it? Are these tingles just remnants, leftover from adolescence, some of the most intense moments of his life? Or, like the bond of the Losers as a whole, is it something he's destined for? Something he can't escape, same as the secret he  _ didn't _ forget, the one he couldn't remember discovering but always knew was fact. 

"I know your secret!" the clown sings, floating down from the statue he'd once used to punish Richie during the height of his vulnerability. "Your _dirty_ little secret!" 

The words on his obit echo this sentiment, echo the notion from that summer of not being known, cared for,  _ found. _ His life is a lie, worthy of the harshest words his brain can muster, and he knows he won't be able to go through this again. Too much had been lost in those ensuing years—friendships, courage, happiness, him _ self.  _

"Should I tell them, Richie?"

_ If you say it then it's real. And when it's real it hurts. _

Richie grabs his bag at the Town House and sneaks out the back door. He's done playing a game he cannot win.

Or so he thinks.

Because, just like back then, Stanley Uris swoops in to save the day, absent in body but present in spirit, giving Richie a dose of logic, of clarity, he's been sorely missing.

_ I know I'm a loser. And I always fucking will be.  _

Maybe that's not enough, but it's all Richie has, now and forever. He can't leave the only people who have ever loved him in the lurch. He can't do jackshit to help either, but showing up is a start. An offering. The only thing he has. And if he dies, well, at least he'll die  _ himself. _ The Richie Tozier he lost somewhere during 1992, when Eddie Kaspbrak left the state of Maine and never looked back. 

In the woods, Mike had told them all to meet up at the library. Richie doesn't want to go, but he also doesn't want to be the reason they lose. And Eddie… he hadn't just looked shocked or scared or upset outside the restaurant, he looked  _ knowing _ , like he understood something nobody else could even perceive. 

Whatever he'd seen in those lights… Richie won't let anything happen to him again. He promises himself that much. 

*******

"Holy shit! What happened to  _ you?" _

Beverly screams at the sight of Henry Bowers draped across the floor, bleeding around the axe Richie had slammed into his head, while Ben and Mike wince at the puddle of puke by Richie's feet. Eddie, who is now sporting a rather large bandage on his left cheek, blinks owlishly at the scene set before him before turning away. 

"Bowers," he mumbles, trying to steady his breathing. Richie's blood turns hot and, for a moment, he wishes he could resurrect Henry just to kill him again, and then he tells himself to  _ chill the fuck out  _ because murdering a man is definitely  _ not _ something he's keen on repeating, thank you very much. Weird alien clowns will (hopefully) have to do.

Mike's arm got cut up in the scuffle, so Ben and Bev busy themselves with tending to it as they wait for Bill's arrival. Richie, always unable to keep his distance for long, especially with how pensive Eddie is suddenly looking, strides over to the shorter man to see what's up. 

"Dude, seriously. How'd he get the drop on you? Didn't you see it coming with your freaky Deadlight Vision or whatever?"

"No, asshole! It doesn't work like that. I mean, whenever I saw myself before it was with this thing—" He gestures to the gauze taped to his cheek,"—taking over half my face, but I never knew what happened. Like, I was in the bathroom and he just, fucking, walked right in. Slammed a knife through my cheek."

Richie reaches out, fingers grazing Eddie's jaw, only to get slapped away with a scowl. He bites back a sliver of a smile. 

Eddie's going to have a scar, but his injury is on one of the least vital parts of the body, hollow as it is. And besides, it'll probably make him look sexier. Add some ruggedness to that clean-cut visage. 

"Could be worse," he mumbles, stuffing his hands back into his pockets. Eddie's eyes slide over to him, dark in the dimly lit library but still somehow shining. 

He licks his thin lips, caterpillar brows drooping even lower than their resting position, a muscle twitching in his jaw.

"Yeah," he says lowly, scuffing the toe of his shoe against the floor. "It could be." Eddie crosses his arms over his chest, and it's only then that Richie notices he's changed clothing. The new yellow tee stretches over his pecs nicely. Richie clears his throat. "Hey, uh. This is gonna sound freaking  _ weird _ , but… do you remember how I got out of the Deadlights?"

_ fuckfuckfuckfuck _

"That depends. On what you think happened."

Eddie levels him with a Look. He unfolds his arms to jab a finger into Richie's sternum. 

_ " Y ou _ got me out, Rich. I'm standing here because of  _ yo u ." _

Richie is a grown man and yet he blushes like a child, hot and itchy the way he used to those rare times anything got real deep under his skin. 

"Yeah, well.  _ Ha _ . Just call me your knight in billowing Hawaiian shirts, dude."

Eddie's smile is sweet, tinged with something bitter. Before Richie can frown, Eddie turns the other way and sighs. 

"Richie to the rescue, huh." The way Eddie says it makes Richie wonder if he remembers  _ how  _ he brought him back to consciousness. If he does he's being oddly cavalier about it. Maybe it simply doesn't matter. Now  _ that's _ a thought that makes his heart twinge. "Well, maybe it's my turn."

"Sure, Eds," Richie cautiously replies, not quite certain what they're talking about anymore. "Maybe it is."

**& &&**

Eddie always knew he would die for his friends. Now he knows that he must.

It's taken him awhile to connect this version of himself with the scared little boy whose bravery came in the form of a fierce love for the Losers, but after standing by in the well house on Neibolt and almost letting Richie get chomped to death by Stan's... spider head…  _ thing,  _ Eddie knows the version of himself he used to be is still inside him, having never really grown up all the way thanks to his mother's, and then his wife's, oppression. Thanks to himself too, in many ways—even if some of them were the fault of meddling magic. 

_ "Who killed a psychotic clown before he was fourteen?" _ Richie asked before they made their descent, when Eddie was certain the visions couldn't be thwarted, that all of them were about to die. _ "Who stabbed Bowers with a knife he pulled out of his own face? Who married a woman ten times his own body mass? Yeah. You're braver than you think." _

And that's when Eddie had known, with unshakable certainty, that he would give his life to save Richie's. If that's what it came down to, there would be no question. No hesitation, not again. Maybe he wasn't going to be fearless, it just wasn't in Eddie's DNA, but he sure as hell would prove Richie right about how brave he could be, and also probably himself; that his courage wasn't just a fluke from those long faded days of youth.

Out of all the mistakes Eddie has made in life (living under his mother's thumb until her death, disregarding his more physical hobbies when she deemed them too dangerous, settling for studying business instead of medicine, letting anxiety make the majority of his decisions for him, forcing himself to believe he could fall in love with Myra,  _ marrying a wom an _ _)_ what he chooses to do down in It's lair won't be one of them. 

_ Richie _ gets caught in the lights this time, which Eddie never witnessed in his nightmares but it certainly fills in a lot of blanks. Richie being reckless—and fucking  _ selfless _ , after all his moaning and groaning, all his attempts to escape— isn't anything new _ , _ but it hits Eddie like a revelation anyway. 

Seeing him floating there, dangling like a puppet with its strings cut, blood seeping from his nose and floating  _ up _ ,  _ up, up _ into the air, Eddie recalls his own experience in vivid color for the very first time. 

There'd been nothing in every sense of the word, and then everything at the exact same time; debilitating pain and fear and  _ otherness.  _ But he could feel himself being sucked back into a corporeal form what felt like eons later, tethered to a firm, unmoving pressure against his mouth; salty, chapped lips breathing life where only death waited. He'd caught the tail-end of the kiss, leaving him to wonder if what he thought happened actually  _ had _ , and yet… that'd been enough. The tiny flicker he didn't know he'd been keeping lit for Richie had expanded into a steady flame, turning him from loser to lover. And now—

_ Now _ that flame is a raging inferno, sparked from papery memories and liquid longing, spreading fast and far like a wildfire. 

Eddie's lashes flutter as his lids slide shut. He thinks of Richie banging the gong in the restaurant, eyes crinkly and lips wide; thinks of Richie in the clubhouse, giggling at his own stupid jokes; thinks of Richie in the library, concerned for Eddie's well-being, same as in the cistern after  _ he _ had been the one to almost die. Eddie thinks of the years they'd had back then, tragically cut short but precious all the same, like when Richie would steal Eddie's crayons because he broke his own or would share his cool new toys because they weren't safe to have at home or would say stupid shit just to piss him off, irises sparking so beautifully each time that Eddie had no choice but to answer  _ that _ call too, with one so uniquely his own. 

He thinks of the way Richie splashed soda over Bowers and his gang because Eddie had accidentally spilled popcorn onto their laps, thinks of the way his stupid big hands felt against his face after he broke his arm and screamed bloody murder, thinks of the way he'd peer over the top of his magazine with those bright magnified gaze when they sat with their sweaty limbs tangled together. 

And earlier, when Richie had  _ believed _ , just as he had when he took it upon himself to bring Eddie back to his former glory. Back  _ home. _ With the Losers. With Richie.

( _ It's your time, Eddie. _

_ This is where you were meant to be, down here in the sewer with me. _

_ Well, maybe it's my turn. _ )

Eddie's eyes open. His chest expands with a deep breath. He looks down at the fence post Beverly gave him _ — _ one so similar to what she used that summer, one so similar to what  _ It _ used to lure him in _ — _ and steels his resolve. 

"BEEP BEEP, MOTHERFUCKER!"

Eddie throws with all his might and takes off running, nearly tripping when It's pained roar sends tremors through the rocky ground. Eddie sees the spider-clown fall, sees some sort of fragment rip through his chest, shivers at the realization that the same thing might happen to him in just a few minutes. 

_ It's okay _ , he tells himself.  _ It's alright. You can do this, Eds. _

And he does.

Eddie makes it over toward Richie, who landed with a nasty thud, heart jumping into his throat at the lack of movement. There's blood smeared over his upper lip, a spiderweb crack in his glasses. Eddie grabs onto his legs and  _ tugs, _ but the giant jackass is too heavy. There's no way he'll make enough progress before Pennywise decides to strike.

"Dammit, Richie," he grunts, scrambling to lean over his wide chest. The scruff on his jaw scrapes pleasantly against Eddie's sweaty palms. "You better wake up, Richie," Eddie demands. "Right the fuck  _ now." _

Then he kisses him. Cranes his neck to slot their lips together, one pair still while the other trembles. There's no response, so Eddie pushes harder, desperately hoping his love is enough. Because he  _ loves _ Richie, he does, always has, he just… refused to see it. Refused to acknowledge he had a sickness that couldn't be cured. But Eddie sees it, feels it, here at forty years old, more poignant than it ever was at thirteen, and his heart screams  _ fuck you _ to anyone that would see this and think it bad. Actually, it's the best he's ever felt.

Eddie hardly knows Richie these days, but somehow it feels like it always used to, like they never split apart. When Richie chokes and gasps beneath him, body jerking back to life, Eddie stares down at his stupid slackjaw expression and laments the time they could have had, past and future. 

"I did it," he whispers, feeling his eyes well with tears. Hey, Rich. Yeah, hey buddy."

Eddie knows what comes next, knows how fast it'll be, so maybe that's why he's acutely aware of the snaking arm zeroing in on him like a missile. He could move now and be alright, but then Richie would get hit, perhaps fatally, and Eddie wouldn't be able to live with himself if that were the case.

_ It's okay, _ he says again, memorizing every inch of the face he'd barely gotten to know.  _ I love him. That's all I needed. _

Richie blinks dazedly up at him, groaning what sounds like Eddie's name. His arms come up, sluggish, wrapping Eddie like a security blanket, and then—

_ "Hnng _ —AH,  _ fffu _ —"

Eddie's shoulder hits the ground first, followed by his head and back. It makes him dizzy, leaves him confused. Has him wondering if he'd been impaled and tossed without even realizing it, the reality of the situation playing out much faster than the dream. And the pain, or lack thereof? Perhaps shock is already kicking in. Perhaps he's in the middle of transcending to whatever comes after  _ life.  _

But… no. That's not right. Richie is still here, for one thing, all his weight pressed solidly against Eddie's front, the side of his neck the perfect place for Eddie's face to fit. He's hissing next to Eddie's ear, breathing fast, and Eddie is just about to ask what the fuck is going on when Richie props himself up on his elbows—glasses dangling from one ear, caught beneath his square jaw—to gape. 

"Richie…?"

"I saw it too, you little shit," he grits. "You're not fucking dying for me, asshole. Now  _ move _ ."

Eddie does what he's told without a second thought, unsure of what just happened but not willing to waste time figuring it out. He helps roll Richie to the side, coming to the conclusion that he's injured somewhere, then tries to get him to his feet after steadying himself.

"Richie? Eddie?" Beverly shouts from close by.

"Guys, what—"

" _ Help!"  _ Eddie yells, glancing over his shoulder to witness Pennywise lifting himself off the spike, all his legs kicking this way and that, the arm that tried to pierce Eddie wriggling through the air like a pissed off snake. They need to get somewhere safe before he strikes again. They're running through this blind, now. "Guys, hurry the fuck up!"

It's a whirlwind after that. Mike and Ben drag Richie into a side cavern while Bill, Eddie, and Bev quickly follow, the latter two crouching down to check out the bloody skin they can see through the tattered slash in Richie's shirt and jacket. 

"Richie, honey..." Beverly murmurs sympathetically, hand jerking between their bodies like she's not sure if she should touch.

"What? Can you see my spine?"

"No, thank  _ God.  _ Shut up," Eddie huffs, shrugging out of his jacket. "Lay down. On your stomach."

"Whatever you say, doc." 

Richie obliges slowly, with the help of Bev, and Eddie descends upon him immediately. His jacket is still sort of damp and it's absolutely filthy, but he balls it up so that the cleanest side is what touches the wound as he applies pressure. 

"Ow!"

"Shhh."

"What?  _ Shhh  _ like 'save your voice, you're dying' or—"

" _ Shhh, _ like shut up, I'm concentrating."

"Gotcha."

"LOSERS! COME OUT AND PLAY!"

_ Fuck.  _ Eddie presses harder with both hands, hoping he's actually doing some good. The slice didn't look deep, but it was hard to see clearly with all the fucking  _ blood _ . 

"I need some—some soap and fucking  _ not  _ shitty water, and antibiotic ointment and bandages—"

"We can get Richie to a hospital if we find a way out," Bill promises, squeezing both of their shoulders while keeping an eye on Pennywise having a tantrum at the mouth of their hideaway.

"And how do we do that?" Bev wonders, wiping stiff, coppery hair away from her face. Eddie doesn't want to know what turned her white shirt burgundy. "We're trapped."

"I'm guessing the Deadlights didn't clue either of you in to what might happen next?" 

Mike crouches as he speaks, darting his gaze away when Eddie meets it, as if he can't bear the weight of this situation any longer.

"I think we changed shit," Richie grunts, flattening himself against the cold, rough ground so Eddie can keep his weight consistent. "Eddie was… he was—"

"I was supposed to die," he finishes for Richie, accepting it in a way the taller man can't seem to. "I saw it all the time and I knew—it doesn't matter."

"Yes it fucking  _ does. _ "

"The point is, Richie saw it too. And he stopped it from happening. After that, I dunno."

"Hey," Ben cuts it, slipping through a makeshift crawlspace they hadn't seen before. "This leads back out. Maybe we can district It long enough to slip Richie through—"

"And  _ what,  _ man? Leave the fucker alive? No way. This is as close as we're ever gonna get. I mean, Eddie, am I gonna live or not?"

"I think so. If the bleeding stops after ten minutes then you should be good, but I don't—"

"Alright! See? It's fine. I'm fine. I'm also never coming back to this shithole again, so if we're gonna do this thing it's gotta be now or never."

"Which brings us back to  _ how ? _ _"_ Bev insists. "The ritual didn't work. And we can't smack It around like last time, he's too big—"

Eddie's head jerks to the side, mind playing back his encounter at the pharmacy, during that bullshit hunt for tokens.

"What if we make him small?" His question earns him a round of confused stares. "No, listen. I saw the leper again, okay? And it tried to shove it's fucking tongue in my mouth—"

"Jesus, dude."

"But I fought back, right? I had my hands around its throat and I kept thinking—just fucking  _ die _ already. I hate you. I'm not even  _ scared _ . And I, like—I felt it getting weaker. Smaller. I was winning. Then it puked on me and vanished. But what if—"

"What if we make it  _ small _ ," Beverly breathes, mouths stretching into a brilliant smile. "If we bring it down to size, we'll have a chance."

"Okay, but..." Ben nods over to the spider legs that are trying to reach them. "The leper was already our size. That thing  _ isn't _ ."

"But it  _ can _ be," Mike whisper-yells. "All living things must abide by the laws of the shape they inhabit. As a leper, as Georgie, as a mummy or a painting or Beverly's dad, It became weak when we knew it wasn't real, when we fought back. When we weren't afraid. And—and remember how we used to feel? The way people  _ made  _ us feel? Hurt. Useless. Small. Until we found each other."

"You wanna  _ bully _ It death? That fucking big ass creature out there?" Richie asks incredulously. "Just to be clear, that's what you're saying right now?"

"I CAN SMELL THE STENCH OF YOUR FEAR!"

_ Not for long, _ Eddie thinks, just as Beverly stands, pulling Mike and Bill with her to the hidden passage.

"We gave It power," Mike concludes, "and now we can take that power away. But you have to believe."

"I do," Eddie says, finding that he means it. After all the crazy shit he's been through, he'd be an idiot not to be fully on board now. "I fucking  _ believe _ . Rich?"

"Yeah. Yeah, me too. You better go kill that fucking clown. For real this time."

Amazingly, they do. Eddie, high on adrenaline, thinks about kissing Richie again as the clown breathes its last breath, but the cave crashing down around them kind of sours the mood. Plus, well, would Richie even want that? Sure, the kiss had worked both ways, but that was… a really, really long time ago. And love is a complicated emotion. 

Still, Eddie is alive and so is Richie. So are the others. And that's more than he'd been betting on.

Eddie wonders if Stan is letting out a sigh of relief, wherever he is, now that it's finally over, once and for all. And then he wonders what Richie is thinking when he turns to rest his head on his forearms, staring up at Eddie with skewed glasses and dark eyes. He knows what he  _ hopes  _ for, but he really can't bring himself to guess. 

**& &&**

It's… weird. Finishing some life-long mission he hadn't even known he  _ had _ . But it's over—promise kept, oath fulfilled, murder monster finally toasted. 

Normally, Richie would say six out of seven ain't half bad. Normally, Richie wouldn't be struggling to mourn a friend he never got to reunite with while celebrating a victory that has long since been in the making. Normally, Richie would find something to crack a joke about. Too bad there's nothing  _ normal _ about any of this.

The dingy demon lair sinks entirely into the earth after they fly down the crumbling front porch. Mike and Ben had to drag Richie most of the way out, the pull of his muscles only worsening the pain of the gash on his back, all while Eddie screeched  _ GOGOGOGO _ directly into his ear. The joints in his knees crack audibly when he falls to the dirt on the other side of the street.

Eddie immediately crashes down beside him. 

"Take this shit off." He tugs at all the layers covering Richie's torso. "Come  _ on _ , hurry up."

_ Bossy _ , he could murmur.  _ If you wanted to get me naked all you had to do was ask _ , he could tease.  _ I love you so much please don't leave me again, _ he could declare. But his tongue is like led in his mouth, won't move so much as an inch.

Instead, Richie holds his arms out with a wince and allows Eddie and Bev to wrangle him free of the cloth covering his torso. 

" _ Fuck. _ You're bleeding again." No surprise there, he didn't realize he'd stopped at all. Maybe he hadn't. Maybe that's why he feels a little woozy. 

"Here," Beverly says. Through his peripheral he can see her hand Eddie the backpack she'd stashed it by the fence before they went inside. It was dark, then. Now it's light. High noon. "I took the First Aid kit from the library. It should tide you over while Ben and Mike go look for a car."

"Good. Great. Lemme just—Rich, hey, I need you to get on your stomach again, alright? Lay on the bag so you don't burn."

Richie stretches onto his front like a lazy cat in the afternoon sun, though he definitely feels more like roadkill right now. Having Eddie's tiny hands rubbing all over his bare skin would be a dream come true any other time, but he can't currently focus on anything but the pain. It's not as bad as whatever he thought he felt in the Deadlights, at least. Small mercies.

"No soap, but I've got some alcohol wipes, meaning this is gonna sting like a bitch. Hang on."

Oh  _ boy _ , is Eddie right. Richie bites into the flesh of his forearm to stop from crying or cursing or passing the fuck out.

"Hey, don't do that," Beverly gently scolds, tugging on Richie's arm with one hand while using the other to get the ointment ready.

"Here." Bill sits down on the grass in front of Richie, legs crossed like a child, and holds out his hand. Richie takes it gratefully and squeezes.

Time passes in a weird mix of fast and slow. His body is throbbing, head aching, guts churning, while his wound is watched and tended. Eddie is here, alive and okay _ — _ but in those terrible, awful lights, he  _ wasn't _ , and that reality had almost come true. 

Eddie almost died down there. For Richie. He  _ knew _ he was going to die and he was going to let it  _ happen,  _ if Richie hadn't seen it coming, hadn't rolled them out of the way—

The sound of a horn snaps Richie to the present, though luckily it's just the giant SUV Eddie decided to rent in Bangor. The damn thing barely fits on Derry's narrow streets. At least he'll be able to relax on the way to the hospital. Everything else can wait.

*******

Rather than stopping back at the Town House so they can shower, eat, and rest (which Richie especially needs, now that the drowsiness from the pills he'd popped at Derry Home Hospital is kicking in), the Losers decide to take a trip to the quarry. 

There's a sign and a blockade at the top of the cliff that prohibits idiots from jumping off the ledge the way they used to as kids. Despite the decades, Derry's water has remained ninety-eight percent algae.

"We'll walk down," Eddie says, nudging Richie with his elbow to make it clear who he's talking about. "Just because we have stitches now doesn't mean we're immune to infections. And if you fall asleep you could drown."

Richie's aching limbs scream in protest.

" _ For fuck's sake. _ You couldn't've told me that before we got all the way up here? We're fuckin' forty, man."

"Were you really _ — _ you seriously need me to tell you not to swim in filthy water after literally having your skin sliced open—"

Eddie's tiny hand bisects the air as he begins his rant, and for the first time since entering that house and exiting in one piece, Richie grins. 

"We can come with you," Ben offers when Eddie pauses for breath.

"Nah, go ahead." Richie waves them off. "Let me live vicariously through you."

Beverly is the first over the bar, leaving her shoes by the sign. She steels herself, then runs and takes a flying leap. Richie feels a hitch in his chest just watching her, imagining what it would be like to feel weightless (in a good way) with the wind in his hair. But then Bev disappears, hits the water with a slapping splash, and Bill whoops as his wrinkled plaid overshirt floats to the dirt.

He's the next over, followed by Ben (Richie is mildly disappointed that he keeps his shirt on, but oh well, you can't win 'em all), and finally Mike. Eddie doesn't say anything about  _ his _ injury, the bandage wrapped tightly around his arm almost taunting Richie when he stretches. 

He's starting to wonder if maybe Eddie is just trying to get him alone. So they can  _ talk. _ The thought makes him sweat under his collar more than the afternoon summer sun does.

"See you down there, losers," Mike calls, looking and sounding lighter than he has since that first night. Then he's gone.

"Let's go," Eddie says, shuffling closer so he can help keep Richie's torso in a steady position while they walk. Too much excessive movement might pull the stitches. Any sudden, searing pain might also cause him the throw up.

They make it back down eventually in a semi-comfortable silence, taking their time maneuvering around the rocks and muddy hills so they can find a shady alcove at the bottom of the cliff. They see their friends clearly from here, splashing and hooting and waving at Richie and Eddie when they finally settle, sprawled out and hunched in. Richie kicks off his shoes and peels away his socks, wanting to at least dip his feet into the refreshing ripples. Surprisingly, Eddie follows suit. Their toes nudge beneath the surface.

Richie is only wearing his filthy t-shirt, having slipped it on after being tended to at the hospital. The fabric at the back is torn, allowing the light breeze to cool his sticky skin, the thick hair on his bare arms standing at attention when Eddie's skin slides against him. It reminds him of the firm press he'd felt against his mouth before he coughed his way back into his body. 

It had worked.  _ Again _ . But why? Had Eddie simply believed it would because of the precedent Richie set? Was it merely his desperate desire not to lose anyone? Or did he feel something too, deep and wild and lovely? 

Richie peeks at the side of Eddie's face, memorizing the slope of his nose, the jut of his chin, the furrow of his brows. The easy beginnings of stubble coat his narrow jaw, lashes casting shadows across his cheekbones.

Eddie was going to  _ die _ for Richie, big eyes wide and resigned. 

"I'm pissed, you know," he says with a contrite little sniffle, turning to watch his friends in the distance. 

"At me?"

"Yeah."

Eddie snorts. He kicks his legs out, upsetting the water around their ankles.

"What do you want? Me to say sorry for saving your ass? 'Cause I'm not."

" _ Eddie. _ You were gonna die, you were  _ two seconds away _ from getting fucking— _ impaled. _ And you knew it. How could you—how could you do that?"

"How could I  _ not? _ If it wasn't me it would've been you. And…" He cards a hands though his fluffy hair, grimacing at the grime that coats his fingers. "Rich, I almost let you die before we even got down there."

"So what! I don't care! 

"Yeah, well you would've! If it were anyone else. If freaking Bev or Mike had stood by when they could've helped, you'd be up in arms! And I'd be right there with you!"

"But it's  _ different _ with you, Eds."

"Why?" His expression screws up as he turns to look at Richie head-on. "I get a pass because you think I'm weak? Just like you think Stan was?"

Richie wants to puke. The back of his neck burns with shame.

"No. That's not—you're not weak, man. You're so fucking strong. And Stan… I know what I said but I didn't mean it, okay? He was strong in a different way."

"He was. And he made his choice, same as I made mine.  _ Jesus _ , Richie, it's not—it's not like I  _ wanted _ to die. You were too heavy to move and the others weren't around and I knew I wouldn't have time to get us away—"

"You could've told me. Before I went and got myself caught. If you told me what was gonna happen—"

"You saved Mike's life, Rich," Eddie reminds. "If you hadn't done what you did..."

They turn toward Mike at the same time, watch him laugh as he spins Bill around, probably making them both dizzy. Yeah. Richie  _ still _ would've thrown that rock. 

He sighs. His heart flutters when Eddie takes his wrist in hand, pressing a thumb to the point of his pulse.

"Whatever was gonna happen… it  _ didn't _ , okay? I'm here. Because of you."

"And  _ I'm _ here because of  _ you. _ "

"Yeah." The corners of Eddie's lips twitch. "I guess we save each other, huh?  _ All _ of us, but—" Eddie tugs Richie's arm, unfurling his fingers until he can rest the flat of Richie's palm on the rounded curve of his knee. Richie's breath hitches. "But especially you and me."

He lets himself huff a breathy laugh even as a couple tears escape, rolling down his warm cheeks. Something akin to grief lodges itself in his throat, mixed with enormous relief.

"You got to see yourself being a hero. But you didn't see what came after, did you?"

"No," Eddie admits. He's got a fresh bandage taped over his stitches, hiding one frowning dimple from view.

"Well, it fucking  _ sucked _ , lemme just say that. I had to— they, uh, they made me leave you. I wanted—I  _ couldn't— _ "

"Hey," Eddie whispers, leaning into Richie's side, propping his knee up further into Richie's touch. "Whatever you saw, it doesn't matter anymore. We killed that fucker. We made it out.  _ I _ made it out."

"Because of me," Richie sniffles. "Yeah, yeah. It just… it felt so  _ real. _ It's gonna take awhile to erase."

"Tell me about it." Eddie clears his throat. "We're two for two, so there's no reason to feel bad."

_ Except for Stan, _ Richie doesn't say. His absence hangs over them all like a black veil.

"Even Steven?" 

"I mean, I nailed Pennywise with that fence post. You didn't see it but I fucking  _ did. _ "

"Right on, Eddie Badassbrak."

"And you rolled me out of the way in time."

"I did."

"Thanks, by the way."

"You're welcome."

"And—" Eddie pauses, shifting away so he can catch Richie's eye, which is hard to do with such a huge crack in his lens. Very carefully, Eddie reaches out to pull the arms off his ears, essentially rendering Richie blind to everything outside of Eddie's close proximity. "And back then, when we were kids, you… you got me out of the lights. And today—or yesterday, I guess—I did the same for you."

Richie swallows thickly. His mouth is dry, he'd only had a couple sips of water with his pills. Could use something a lot stronger right about now.

"Yep. Spot-on rundown, Eds. Kudos to your stellar observational skills."

"Idiot," Eddie huffs, painfully fond. Richie squeezes his knee.

They sit together for several long minutes, watching their friends clean off in the water. Bill whispers something to Mike, arms locked tight, faces solemn. Beverly dunks Ben, the two only resurfacing when they're gasping for breath. It's similar to what he'd seen in that vision, or whatever it might've been, except Richie isn't kneeling in the center with a shattered heart barely beating in his chest. Eddie is  _ here _ , stuck to Richie's side like glue, and he'll be forever thankful that he moved as fast as he did, making sure this reality came to life.

He wonders what Stan would be doing, if he were here now. What he'd say. What he'd  _ think _ about another kiss, about Richie's secret still weighing so heavily on his head. But all Richie will ever have now are memories of him, ones he hopes he won't yet again forget.

Eddie breathing in the fresh, muggy air beside him is a reminder to accept this gift and live in the present. 

He just… isn't sure what that entails. Or where the two of them stand. If everything that's happened means anything at all. 

Sensing his thought (or perhaps just feeling his obvious staring), Eddie turns to Richie with a determined pout. 

"You kissed me," he plainly states. It's the first time he's ever acknowledged it, out loud, without beating around the bush. "Why? You think that would've been the first thing I asked, but—" 

_ I was scared, _ lingers unspoken in the air between them.

"It was Ben's idea," Richie explains, closing his eyes to better picture it. "Pretty much called you  _ Sleeping Beauty, _ I think. He said, y'know, a kiss might wake you up. Like a fairytale. You love someone, give 'em a little smooch, then look at that, the evil spell is broken." He chuckles, though it doesn't feel all that funny. Never really did. "Bill thought Bev should be the one to do it, being the only girl and all. I mean, I'm pretty sure she's got bigger balls than all of us combined, but—yeah, no. No, I uh, was pretty quick to veto that suggestion."

"Why?" Eddie asks again, only it's fiercer and less broad. Like he knows where this is going but needs to hear it anyway.

Richie, wading in that old familiar shame, removes his hand from Eddie's knee and hunches his shoulders. As big as he grew up to be, he still feels oh so very small. 

"Why do you think, man? Ben says 'hey, maybe someone should lay one on him,' and my first thought is 'cool, yeah, I'll do it for free!'"

"Don't say that," Eddie snaps, oddly cold and venomous, but not at Richie directly, not really. Richie can feel how wide his own eyes grow. Eddie immediately deflates. "It's not—Pennywise said something like that a long time ago, is all."

"Sorry."

"I know. He, um." Eddie rubs the back of his head, avoiding eye contact. The tendons in his neck strain, as if he's fighting against what he should or shouldn't say. "He looked like you, when he said it."

_ Oh. _

"Oh." Well…  _ huh. _ Interesting. "He used to do that shit to me, too."

"With—wait, you mean with me?"

"Yeah," he croaks. "And Big Pauly in the park."

"Jesus. That was your leper?"

"Yep. You got fear of disease, I got fear of masculinity. Go figure."

There's a beat, then, where Richie waits with bated breath, not sure he wanted to say those words or if he's even happy with them but sort of relieved to have them in the open regardless. It's not the clearest way he could've said it—plausible deniability runs in his  _ blood _ —but if Eddie gets it, maybe Richie might feel some vindication. If he gets it, maybe they'll both have the answers they need.

That's why he's sort of frustrated when all Eddie replies with is: "You said you were afraid of clowns."

"Dude. I said a lot of shit I didn't mean. Still do, actually. But you already knew that."

Eddie hums. Richie feels like he's teetering.

"But you never said  _ why _ you thought it would work."

Okay, so they're back on that already. Richie rubs his eyes. He considers jumping into the water to be rid of this conversation, but knows without a doubt that, if he did, they'd never bring it up again. 

Richie is used to self-sabotaging. He doesn't want to do that with Eddie, not if there's a sliver of a chance that—

"Oh my God.  _ Fine _ . How 'bout this: why did  _ you _ think it would work, Eddie?"

He scrunches his nose in indignation.

"I asked you first."

"First the worst, second the best," Richie quips, and Eddie  _ laughs _ . It remains one of the best sounds in the world. 

He pulls his legs out of the water, bends them at the knees so he can take up as little space as possible, stares at Richie with his impossibly big doe eyes, every line and crevice and wrinkle looking deeper in the sun. There are freckles on his nose, mainstays from youth, just a few that Richie can spot this close without his glasses. 

"Don't twist your back," he mumbles, shoving at Richie's thigh with his foot until he takes the hint and mirrors his position properly. "Now tell me I'm brave."

"I—" Richie's mouth snaps open and closed like a fish. "You're brave, Eddie. One of the bravest bastards I've ever known."

"Okay," he breathes. "Alright." And then he sets Richie's glasses atop the rock they're sitting on, curls his fingers around Richie's tensed calves, and looks him straight in the eye. 

"I love you," he breathes. "I—I think I always have, but I never… never  _ knew _ . Or I wouldn't let myself believe. And then we came back here and it's like nothing changed, which is really fucking sad but also kind of incredible. And—look, I know it's hard to say, I couldn't before, but I'm here when maybe I shouldn't be and I can't just let it go anymore. I love you."

Richie is… stunned. Flabbergasted.  _ Flummoxed.  _ It's not as if he hadn't considered the possibility, Ben's shitty ass  _ True Love's Kiss  _ strategy had worked both times for the two of them in switched scenarios, but he hadn't exactly  _ hoped.  _ And yet this,  _ this _ is  _ beyond _ hope. This is—fuck, wow,  _ shit _ . 

"I'm, uh, gonna assume you don't mean love, like, the way you love Bill or Ben or—"

"No. Rich." He reaches out, hesitant midair, so Richie takes it upon himself to close that gap by slotting their hands together, quietly relishing in how small they seem in his wide grip. Eddie's palms are soft but his fingertips are rough, clearly worked with. Maybe not just from paper pushing, either. "I love you like I've never loved anyone else. Because I never have."

_ "Eddie," _ Richie groans, winded. Punched in the gut by such a confession. He can't believe this is happening.  _ Is _ it? The one thing he could hardly hope to dream? "You can't—are you  _ sure _ you're talking about me here? I mean, how—"

"Richie, fucking hell,  _ yes _ I'm talking about you."

"But—and I hate to say this, truly I do, but you're—you're  _ married. _ "

"Yeah, I… I know." Eddie sighs, stares at their hands like he's having a revelation. "I am and I know that's wrong, being in love with someone else, but Richie, if I knew you, if I  _ remembered _ , I wouldn't be. Myra—that wouldn't've happened."

"Because she's basically your mother in a wig?" Richie says, unable to restrain himself.

Eddie tilts his head back, lips pursed.

"Yeah," he replies, "and also, you know, I would've had  _ you _ . If, uh—"

"Eddie," Richie murmurs again, realizing he wants to say that name every day for the rest of his life like an exalting prayer. "I kissed you first, dipshit."

"Twenty-seven fucking years ago!" He shouts. Out of the corner of his eye Richie can see the others beginning to look their way. He ignores them. "We're forty now, dude. And maybe you don't—"

"I  _ do _ . Jesus  _ Christ _ , Eddie, I do."

"Do  _ what?" _ he grumbles with a haughty little huff. 

Richie, through his tears, barks a braying laugh. His heart swells like the Grinch at the softness in Eddie's usually hard features. 

"I love you, Eddie. I  _ always _ have. And even when I lost you, that never stopped. I mean, I think I looked for you everywhere without even knowing? My manager, he's like, a fucking  _ discount clone _ of you, what the fuck! And I just—God, Eddie, I'm loony for you."

"Of course you have to say it like that," he complains, but then he cackles delightedly and scoots forward until their knees are practically overlapping. "I'm loony for you too, asshole."

"That's good. That's—hey, do you think we could kiss again? Like, actually really for real?" He feels stupid for asking, but Eddie doesn't look at him like he's crazy, so he tells himself it's fine. "Because you were conked out the first go, and then it was me, so… third time's the charm, right?" Richie clears the phlegm in his throat, sniffs away some snot. "If you want," he tacks on, not positive Eddie  _ does _ want to explore anything outside of verbally expressing his feelings at this point. 

To his very pleasant surprise, Eddie pulls his hands from Richie's in order to set them on his shoulders, smoothing over the fabric before settling in a firm squeeze. And then he leans closer, face flushing an adorable shade of pink, and all Richie can do is cup Eddie's jaw in trembling hands and turns his head to meet Eddie's mouth in the middle.

It doesn't taste great, smells even worse, and they're clumsy in their movements because they've never done it like  _ this _ before, with someone they've loved before they even knew what that could feel like, but it's still so perfectly  _ them _ —EddieAndRichie, RichieAndEddie—that he knows neither would change it for the world. They've survived so much, together and apart (bullies, traumatic childhoods, identity issues, self-doubt, childhood fears come to life, a fucking killer clown from outer space), and now, maybe, they'll get to live. All seven of them, even if one is no longer present.

_ Maybe that's why change is so scary, _ Richie recalls Stan saying to a crowd that had been too eager to take away all that made him unique.  _ Because the things we wish we could leave behind, the whispers we wish we could silence, the nightmares we most want to wake from, the memories we wish we could change, the secrets we feel like we have to keep… are the hardest to walk away from. The good stuff, the pictures in our mind that fade away the fastest? Those pieces of you, it feels the easiest to lose. _

But not anymore.

As Richie tilts Eddie's head back with the pads of his thumbs, using his height to deepen the kiss, shyly licking at the seam of Eddie's lips, he promises himself he won't lose this again. Promises Stanley he'll let the public finally see him in his natural habitat, as the best damn Greylag goose there's ever been. Funniest, too.

Richie won't mount Eddie right out here in the open, but he definitely considers it when Eddie's teeth nip at his swollen lip, when Eddie's hands tug the hair at his nape almost too roughly—until a few annoying cheers erupting from their peanut gallery of spectators makes them break apart to counter the ribbing with some 

Losers stick together, after all.

What Richie doesn't know is that later—after they go their separate ways, already pissing each other off with how frequent their messages come in; when Eddie is sorting things out in New York, a photo of Richie's ancient carving becoming the first thing he sees upon unlocking his phone—a pristine envelope from Georgia will be waiting in his mailbox, a fresh set of tears surely to follow.

Richie will tell Eddie to hold on, keeping the phone between his neck and shoulder while tearing through the flap, murmuring something about  _ Stanley _ he'll be too overcome to recall. Eddie will ask what it says, not yet having made a second trip to what will become his  _ old place _ to collect the rest of his things, but Richie won't be able to lend voice to the words he reads.

Instead, Richie will take a shaky photo and hit send, scrubbing a hand over his mouth to hide a shaky sob.

_ 'Be who you want to be. Be proud,' _ Richie will burn into his brain, for all the times he needed it in the past and all the times he'll need it in the future. ' _ And if you find someone worth holding onto, never ever let them go. Follow your own path, wherever that takes you.' _

After a long moment of silence, Eddie will quietly ask if Stanley knew—about Richie, about Eddie, about  _ them _ .

"Yeah," he'll say. "He knew. And I think I did too. Well enough, anyway."

"Hey, I love you," Eddie will reply. 

What a kick in the dick it'll be, realizing it has always been this way. 

Turns out, some things don't have to hurt when they're real. Sometimes they can be  _ good. _ A regular old fairytale.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, there it is! The chapter has been finished for a while, I just hadn't gotten around to editing it (mostly because I started yet another fic instead of working on the other wips I have [also, there are more than likely still errors, so apologies for that]). This 2nd chapter didn't exactly turn out the way I wanted? It seems almost rushed, for some reason, despite it being a little longer. I think the first one came out better, so I won't be surprised if you guys think that too, but I still really hope you enjoyed it! This whole fic was just a fun little idea I wanted to explore my own way. 
> 
> this chapter is basically just:  
> [e: i'd die for you, bro  
> r: but i want you to llive for me, bro]  
> and i'm sorry :')
> 
> Anyway. Please feel free to let me know what you think! I really would appreciate it. ♥

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! Okay, well, first of all... I know the idea of Eddie being taken instead of Bev in Chapter One has been done several times already, but I wanted to try my hand at it too! I feel bad taking a plot point from Bev, but I thought it could be really interesting if Eddie saw himself dying, especially since he had to work himself back up to his bravery; him knowing what his actions would lead to and still doing it because he loves his Richie that much (and thinks about how he would die for his friends) is just like UGH. I had to try, even if it's short of a short story made in 2 parts. 
> 
> Eddie WILL live, because obviously, but for the first (and only) time... Stanley will not. I just thought it fit a little better with Eddie taking Bev's role of seeing it happen in the lights but not remembering properly until it's too late. I'm sorry. (I tried showcasing his importance in this first chapter, with him bonding with Richie and getting him to talk about the hard stuff, because I still love him.)
> 
> ANYWAY. There are some things from the book in here, and obvious it revisits scenes in the movie, just a little differently. (the line "horrible yellow eyes" is technically from Spider-Man (2002) because I hear it in Aunt May's voice no matter what. 
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't know if there were studies in the 80s about male greylag geese trying to mate with other males. I tried to research but I came up empty and didn't want to cut that conversation because it was important... even if slightly bizarre. Stan tried his best okay. (and so did i)
> 
> (side note: while bev did not get caught in the lights, meaning ben didn't have to get her out with a kiss, just know that they still would have kissed at some point that summer, just like she did with bill, because it is important to the benverly journey. i don't know when or why but it did.)
> 
> So, yeah! I really hope you enjoy this little fic. Part 2 will be up whenever I finish editing it, probably sometime next week or the one after. I was taking a break from writing and am slowly getting back into it again. I still have a lot if ideas that haunt me because I'm slow and lazy lolol
> 
> Feel free to leave your feedback, please! It is very much appreciated. I love every comment I receive and use them to help fuel my motivation. ♥
> 
> As always, I apologize for any mistakes I probably missed.


End file.
